Inevitable
by SpillingInk
Summary: Certain things are inevitable. Castle pushes, Beckett twists an ankle, and walls crumble. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Inevitable**

I own nothing, just playing on Marlowe's playground.

Set during season four, after "Cuffed" and before "Till Death do us Part"

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><p>Sunlight sliced a thin line through the heavy drapes, piercing and hot and cold all in one impression. The blankets lay tangled at his feet, his body thrown diagonally across the sheets, the skin of his back prickling with the early morning coolness of a quiet house. His awareness slumbered, heavy and resistant to the rays caressing his lids. It wasn't the sun, his subconscious whispered, arguing with the pull of sleep. It was something else that roused you. And it just did it again.<p>

He sighed a protest and shoved his arms beneath his pillow, burrowing his chest deeper into the mattress, trying to shut out reality and bask in the feelings of the night. Where his dreams had been sweet. A woman, smiling. Happiness like a drug. No, he would stay in the moment, in memories and warmth and whispers and laughter, where he could feel the smile, the touch...

Castle startled awake as his phone chimed obnoxiously from across the bed. He should change the ringtone, he thought, to a more suitable alarm. But it was familiar. It reminded him of the dream. Odd. No, it wasn't, of course it wasn't odd. It was Beckett.

Heaving himself half upwards, he lunged one arm out and snagged the phone to his pillow, swiping the answer bar en route.

"Kate." He winced slightly at the sound of his voice, heavy and thick and a little too warm from those lingering emotional tides...and had he just used her first name? "Is a body dropping now?" Wake up Castle, act alert.

"Actually, no. Good morning, Castle. Is that bed cozy?"

She knew, of course. And that was too perfect...

"Oh jeez Kate, you didn't have to call to ask me that...you could have just climbed in."

"Mhm. One evening at my place and already you're inviting me to bed with you."

"Would it be me if I didn't?"

"No, that'd be too mature."

"Oh ha!" he squinted at his phone, the colors blurring. "What time is it, anyway?"

"About quarter of nine. We have a new lead on the DiMassou case from a few weeks back–"

"The guy with the green hair and blue eyebrows?"

"–Yes, that one – and if we track down a few more details, we may file for an arrest warrant."

"I'm there. Just –ouch–" his toes smacked the closet door frame "-give me thirty." He was already grabbing pants and a shirt, tossing them on the bed, kicking his shoes out of their cubby.

Light laughter. "No rush. Breakfast's here."

Food's there? Castle jumped the shower, the water sparkling trails across his shoulders and neck, its playful meandering a mirror to his upbeat mood. A hand through his damp hair, a quick skim with the toothbrush, and he was out the door, hailing a checkered coach.

The Monday morning scowl on New York's working class passed him by unnoticed, the air a refreshing spike instead of a harsh bite. He'd wrote all day and half the night yesterday, the words forming faster than his fingers could twitch, the story weaving its own tapestry. Wine at her place, indeed. Forever his muse.

He slid into the precinct elevator and couldn't avoid bobbing in time to the jazz music playing through unseen speakers. His actions weren't really justifiable, his mood too jovial, his heart too light. There was no kiss. No touching, not really, nothing that counted. No special words, no relational milestone - it had been just a weekend, a weekend full of her. Drinks at the Old Haunt with the gang on Friday night; laughing about Tony the Tiger. Poker with her and a smattering of city officials at his place Saturday evening. Dropping her off turning into a few glasses of wine laced with literary criticism. She'd even asked him about his process, how he did it, what was his theory of storytelling. Richness. And now she was calling him in, no good reason, no body, just a new lead...sounded like a thin excuse. One could hope.

He rounded the corner into the bullpen, having already caught sight of her through the hashed windows. Sitting there, hair tumbling, eyes downcast upon a small stack of papers she was rifling through. Just like every other day. He allowed a slow smile breach his lips, a prerequisite for his good morning grin. The routine was so...comfortable. Beautiful. Unique to them. She called, and he came-

Oh no.

Castle's stride faltered, and Beckett glanced up at the brief stuttering scuff of his shoe. He had forgotten her coffee. Suddenly his hands felt glaringly empty, too light...his fingers closed on themselves. Whoops.

"I've got your coffee. And food, if you're interested in a breakfast burrito with extra bacon."

He looked at the desk. A Styrofoam cup, steam leaking through the small oval cut into the lid. A hand towel, wrapped around the burrito, keeping it warm. "I forgot yours." his tone was apologetic as he unbuttoned his coat and cast it across the back of his chair. She bought him coffee? And food? She might as well of kissed him back.

She went back to her papers. "I owe you a few. Had mine while you were sleeping."

"Good movie." He unrolled the towel and peeled back the burrito wrap. "While You Were Sleeping."

"If you are into that."

"Did I just hear the girl who watches Temptation Lane tell me she doesn't appreciate a good flick?" He bit into the burrito. Where did she find this? And extra bacon? He loved this woman.

"Depends. I find reality takes a little more work than that."

"I always figured she just finally met the right guy...sure reality takes more work but the story is so-"

"Fluffy? Stop talking before you lose your man card."

"Being raised by and raising a female has already stolen that."

She tilted her head in concession to his point.

"So what's this new development?" he crinkled his eyes and leaned past his burrito. "...Or did you just miss me?"

She gave him her flat-eyed glare, her lids lowering in feigned boredom at his comment, mouth humorless above the jut of her chin. "Well, apparently, there was a witness."

He distinctly remembered her reacting differently at the Old Haunt in the face of his incessant teasing...more temptress, more bantering; teasing grins and sharp retorts that left little goosebumps on his arms. This is the precinct, Castle. Weekend's over.

"What? We interviewed everyone that was in or around that slimy alley."

"All the ones we knew about. David Shimonoseki came forward this morning, he was a young friend of our vic DiMassou. He was hanging back around the corner, saw our killer run off. Said it was a drug deal gone bad."

"And he's just now coming forward?"

"The kid's barely sixteen. He saw DiMassou's body and freaked. Conscience finally got to him; must have decided it was better to rat to the police than carry a murder with him the rest of his life. Ryan's got him up with the artists. Meanwhile..." she swiveled her chair away, bent down, stood up with a box pressed between her palms, "...we get to brush up on the case and rebuild the murder board. Put in the new info. See what clicks."

"Have I become your inspiration for building theory? That's so poetic."

"Don't flatter yourself."

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><p>Goofy. Ridiculously goofy. She couldn't label it at first...there was a different glint in his eyes, a swagger she hadn't seen since before - well, since before the summer...But as they pieced the board back together, poured over the details, he just kept rolling out one joke after another, some terrible, some warranting a glare, others dragging the laughter out of her...a goofy litany full of inside jokes and punnish word play. And he wasn't showing signs of stopping.<p>

The endless stream of one-liners and irreverent comments were transforming her job into an impromptu comedy show; transforming the way she worked, transporting her emotion from somber contemplation to amused perusal. He was pulling her pigtails left and right, and she was barely swatting him away. Like Friday. And Saturday. And Saturday night...what had she done? Give this man a mile and he'd go ten.

He looked at her over the top of the crime scene report as he read off the timeline points for her to plot with a squeaky marker; his crazy little smile peaking just over the edge. A memory sparked: a whiff of scotch and those same dancing eyes gazing at her over his glass, face too close, his cologne adding a sultry tinge to the earthy bar air. She stifled a smile.

She knew the root of his ridiculousness. Her. They'd had a good time, she would even say a great time; but give too much and he may start pressing, asking for some definition. Definition she couldn't give, clarity she didn't have. Perhaps the burrito and coffee had been too much? No; she owed him that much. She had grown dependent on the healing laughter, expectant of the optimist's charms. But admit that to him? No way. She wasn't ready for that yet. Not by a long shot.

The goof got out of hand, of course. She turned her back to the board momentarily to glance over the new report from their early morning interview with Shimonoseki, pivoted back to compare it with the timeline. Which had been turned into train tracks. She looked at him. He was engrossed in his assignment, searching DiMassou's phone records for Shimonoseki's digits. Well, she could deal with tracks...it wasn't really messing up her board. And she wasn't giving him the satisfaction of a reaction.

She grabbed a suspects report, reviewed the alibi, looked at the board again. Little stick men acting out the timeline. She narrowed her eyes, tried to concentrate on the facts, struggle against the smile - and the telephone barked from her desk. It was a quick call. But apparently long enough for DiMassou's murdered stick man to appear, complete with green hair and...were those blue eyebrows? 'WHO DUNNIT?' was printed in the square reserved for the killer.

Nope. Now her board was cluttered. No dice, Castle. She crossed to where he sat perched on the edge of a desk, the pages of phone records fanned out and held up to cover his face.

"Castle." she clipped, hooking a finger over the top edges and flopping the paper screen away from his face, forcing the corners of her mouth to stay down and stop twitching in mutiny. "Get in line."

He laughed, a little boy celebrating a self-gratifying prank. "I am! I finished highlighting all the numbers...see?"

She snatched the papers and turned them to inspect his work. "Seriously, what is your deal today? You're hindering, not helping." Not with the case, anyway. Never mind herself. Never mind she enjoys their game of push-and-shove; never mind it is oddly therapeutic.

"I just verified that Shimonoseki was, indeed, telling the truth about his friendship with our vic, and he talked to him twice in the hours before the murder." Castle had slid off the desk and was standing close, reaching over her wrist to point out relevant yellow streaks. "And now all I have to do is check Shimonoseki's phone records to see who else he called within our timeline...get some more leads from DiMassou's group of friends, right?"

"You've had plenty of time for that."

"Um, no..."

"Castle, you murdered my board."

"Well it is a-"

She threw a hand up over his opening mouth to stop the words. "Pun intended."

The flash in his eyes; the still line of his mouth against her skin; the absence of a light chuckle were her only warnings that she'd crossed an unspoken threshold from playful to...to...too much. Too far. Her hand dropped as lead, burning from the warmth his breath had infused across her palm. She swallowed, turned to fumble for the other call logs, swept them up and thumped them into his chest. Hard. "Now, do something productive."

"Ow!" he whined emphatically, the goofiness back, light dancing in his eyes.

She stepped away and berated herself as she meticulously cleaned up her board. It had just...happened. A raw, subconsious reaction, a symptom of how familiar she was with him, an indication of the claim she had inadvertently laid. Overstep again, Beckett, cross that line one too many times - and you won't be able to go back. Back to safe. Back to control.

Her phone clattered again, a welcome distraction.

"Beckett." Words filled her ear, she reached for a pen, jotted a note. Glancing up, the phone cradled in her shoulder, she caught Castle reaching for her coat in preemptive expectation. She finished, dropped the phone back to its cradle. "Alright, DaVinci. We've got a body."

She made an instantaneous decision and dropped her hands behind her, allowing him to deftly slide her coat up the length of her arms and over her shoulders. For a heartbeat, as his hands hovered in front of her clavicles while drawing the seams of the jacket in line with the curve of her shoulders, she could imagine rocking backwards and allowing the circle of his arms to close around her, press her tight.

His hands disappeared and the image with them. They had a body to see.

* * *

><p>Beckett picked her way off the perfect lines of the path, between the headstones of Calvary Cemetery, past little bouquets of flowers; mostly fake, but with a few wilted arrangements mixed in. The sun was bright, crisp, the sky perfectly clear; a rarity for the season. The wind was minimal, the ground soft and giving beneath her steps, the grass brown and limp.<p>

Entering the crime zone, she swept the scene. A woman, bundled in a pea coat, curled sideways at the foot of a grave, seemingly asleep. But her chest was motionless, her skin too pale, papery and white in the bright afternoon.

"Single shot to the center of mass; she bled out. No other marks or contusions that I can see, it doesn't appear there was much of a struggle." Lanie was crouching by the woman's head, talking and tapping her pen across the top of her clip board.

Beckett stood above her, a few steps farther away than she should be. The ground was dark beneath the victim, a large stain that soaked the ground, heavy and black. The delicate blades of grass were bowed, mourning, unable to carry the burden of the life poured out upon them.

She glanced surreptitiously at Castle, hands in his pockets at her side, his elbow nearly touching hers, his presence suddenly comforting and strong, counteracting the feeling of frailty consuming her. Did he feel it too? The weight, the heaviness?

"She tried to rob the grave." Castle's voice; his eyes met hers. "I accuse the ghost." Beckett was close enough to hear it rumble through his chest, too flippant. But his eyes were still, serious, supporting. He felt the hesitance in her, he was attuned to her moods as a musician to his instrument; he always knew. And he was bringing her back, grounding her.

She forced her eyes back to the corpse, the fatal wound to the heart glaring and too obvious. Remembered pain clenched beneath her chest, shallowing her breath. Her life was given back; it is a debt to repay. Find the killer, bring justice and closure. It is who she was; it defined her now more than ever. Speaker for the dead.

Beckett took a long step forward and crouched beside Lanie, listened to the report, time of death, size of the bullet. She could handle this, she could do this. Maintain professional distance.

Castle dropped another line and Lanie turned her head to fire something back, Kate glanced back as well, just because. She felt raw inside, her chest too tight. She hated it. Hated the weakness, hated the triggers, the memories, the insecurities. The irrationality of it all. She was over it, she had survived, she was healed. Why did her psyche fail her?

Her eyes landed on his face, set above her, the sky a brilliant blue behind him, the direct sun casting contrasting shadows over his cheeks. It was an accident, she hadn't meant to catch his eye, she was only trying to hear what he had been saying to Lanie...

And unexpectedly the world tunneled, everything out of focus except those piercing eyes, set against a blue sky; suddenly the grass was emerald, sharp, the air static, cracking. She couldn't avert her gaze, though she knew she was staring, unblinking, all her senses suddenly on fire, the light wind a roaring, Lanie's words jumbled and indistinct, the smell of the ground sharp and heavy and impossibly suffocating.

She couldn't breathe. She needed air. Everything was crashing, she was trapped in the middle, trapped between a dead woman and Lanie and Castle and the pool of blood near her toes...she sucked wind but it was too thick, choked with fresh grass and musty sod; the sky was still so brilliant and Castle's face was more serious now...

"Beckett? Kate?" _"Kate, Shh... Kate. Stay with me Kate."_His words were disembodied, they didn't match his lips.

But the words... She was hearing them, so softly, she couldn't shut out the sound..._"No, don't leave me, please...stay with me, ok?"_No - she couldn't hear it again; it was too much, too close.

His hand was fisting in her lapels, solid, real, keeping her from toppling over, contaminating the body. His face was close, really close, but out of the sky now, no longer framed in blue - reality was there, reachable.

"Kate! Come on, stand up." His words hung, a focal point, everything falling back into place, her senses finding equilibrium, the panic ebbing away, her coat still too tight, his hands hauling her upwards. But she was standing on her own, she had pushed him away - violently, needing the distance; the buttons were stubborn but finally her jacket swung open as she staggered away, the scarf unwrapped, burning her neck as she yanked it free.

Air. Space. Cold wind, brown grass. Composure. This was not her. She was strong, she could beat it, use her weakness...Esposito's words, her therapist's...don't ignore it, face it, process it; all of it crowding her mind. She wasn't going to process it. Not yet. The moment was too raw. Maybe she would talk about it at her next session; probably not.

She was alive. She had a job to do. A debt to repay to the victims. Put on the armor, lock in the vulnerability, bind up the fraying pieces.

She breathed, steadied, and returned to the scene. Esposito was there, notebook in hand.

"Tell me what you've got, Espo. Any witnesses?" She was back; impenetrable, unshakeable - for the time being. She would wait for solitude and space before delving back into the triggers surrounding that dark place.

Their faces were too tight, stances too stiff, voices too measured. Castle was looking at her; she ignored him. She wished he wasn't here; she regretted calling him in.

Regretted the fact that he witnessed her brokenness, got cut on the pieces. She could feel it between them; his question, her silence. The damn wall. He wanted in - or at least to approach...listen. To be her anchor, to offer her a pillar to lean on. But how could she explain? He didn't realize what he was asking for, what he was in for.

She was too broken. It could ruin him. Them. Her.

If she dropped the facade and bared her soul, it would be uncontrolled, wild, too raw and piercing. The hurt and anger from a thousand wounds pouring over him. She was learning. Learning to control it, to unpack herself piece by piece; a slow process of restructuring and restoring, rebuilding her cracked foundation and crumbling pilings. For him.

But until that work was complete...she feared his impetuousness, his impulsiveness - she feared he would jump the gun before she was ready, bringing her crashing down around him. And what then?

So she turned her back on his troubled eyes, clipped a few orders to Esposito, and cinched down the armor. Walked away, back to her car. Ignoring the hollow pit in her gut. Fighting the angst and longing in her soul. She knew what he wanted. She just didn't know how to give it to him.

And she wasn't sure how much time she could buy.

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><p>AN: I will upload the next part in a few days!


	2. Chapter 2

The bumper directly in front of them was relatively nondescript except for a small dent on the left side and a peeling political sticker left over from the mayor's first election, yet Beckett had stared at it for the past five minutes. Traffic was agonizingly slow, the cars backed up several lights long at Allen and Rivington, mirroring the unspoken words between them. Castle drew a breath several times with questions on his tongue, but the stifling silence from his partner smothered them before they materialized. She was expressionless, emotionless, almost nonchalant in the way she tapped her thumb upon the leather of the wheel and lounged in her seat, one foot extend to the pedals, the other bent and drawn close to the seat, vibrating slightly with the flexion of her muscles as she shifted her heel in time with the subdued pop music emitting from the dashboard.

If he hadn't witnessed the crack in her steady demeanor, he would have thought she was relaxed, thinking about the case, formulating a strategy of progression. If he hadn't seen that haunted look in her eyes, hadn't caught her as she crouched immobilized and rigid, unable to balance; he would have decided she was amicably silent. It made him wonder how many other times she had previously fooled him.

She wouldn't meet his gaze, wouldn't even look his direction; her right arm was extended high on the steering wheel, effectively closing her body to him, solidifying his isolation. It made him feel somehow responsible for the whole situation. Absurdly so; but her refusal to acknowledge his presence left him with residual guilt. That, and the fact she had ripped his fingers from her coat before shoving him aside.

Traffic shifted forward a few car lengths, then stopped.

The light turned green. No movement. It turned yellow, then red again. Pedestrians swarmed the walk. Only a few weeks before Christmas and the window-shoppers were out in earnest. The light turned again; this time the opposite side was clear and Beckett made it through the intersection only to brake on the other side for another undetermined wait.

"I guess we should've taken Bowery instead of Allen." Castle commented, longing for anything to breach the silence.

"Would've been the same." She was absently biting her thumbnail, too patient, too relaxed. Still staring straight ahead. And killing the conversation with that flat comment.

Another minute agonized by.

"You know, we sorta skipped lunch." He flicked his phone. "It's almost two."

"Hmm." Her eyes flicked to the dashboard clock. "So it is. You hungry?"

"Of course! There's a decent selection once we cross Houston - and a parking garage. Hopefully it has a few spots left."

"I'm good. I can drop you off if you want." Now she was staring out the driver's side window, chin pressed into her palm.

"Oh no, you're getting something too."

"I'm not really hungry."

"Yes you are - you've just forgotten. But the smell of fresh, hot pizza will jog your memory. A stuffed crust slathered in pesto and marinara, topped with succulent mushrooms and spicy pepperoni, infused with the flavor of onion and select herbs, all draped in a blanket of bubbling, soft golden cheeses...tell me you're not interested."

He caught the twitch of her lips and the lift in her cheeks, a small smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I'll order in."

"Well, very sadly, they don't deliver."

She shifted her head off her hand and waved indifferently. "I'll figure something out."

"Beckett." he reprimanded condescendingly.

"What? I will! I'm not stopping for lunch when I can work and eat simultaneously."

"Except you and I both know that'll never happen. I've found too many cold cartons of takeout stuffed in the break room fridge."

"Castle, I said I'll figure something out."

"C'mon, just take a break. You could use the space." He wanted to help her decompress, to give her an opportunity to restructure herself. Perhaps, if he was very lucky, and very careful, she may even confide in him.

Her sharp glance warned him he had stepped too far. "I don't need 'the space', Castle. Except from you mothering me."

Castle tossed a hand up, a futile attempt to disperse the tension between them. "I'm not mothering you." He saw her eyebrows lift in disagreement. "I'm saying let's take a lunch break. For once."

She was staring ahead again, her head tilted in a way that conveyed she wasn't open to listening. "I'm past being hungry."

Castle clenched his right fist beside his thigh in frustration. So obstinate. So stubborn. So closed off. He twitched his jaw and turned away, taking his turn at pedestrian-watching out the side window. Colors, everywhere. Lights, scarves, storefronts, ribbons, red, green, white...a stark contrast to the grey buildings and the concrete carpet flowing between them. A caustic sight to his mood. He flicked his eyes about in perturbation before letting out a carefully controlled breath and turning back to re-center his gaze on the brake lights in front of them.

In his peripheral, he caught Beckett's sudden movement. She had been watching him. He tried unsuccessfully to discern her emotions without looking at her: to figure out what she had been thinking, why she had felt the need to watch his frustration. But she had her cop-face on; the careful calm she projected in the interrogation room.

What the hell, why not. She was already shutting him out; he might as well seal the deal. Haltingly, he turned towards her slightly, eyes hovering over her knee as he drew a hesitant breath and gathered the courage. "Do you wanna talk about it?" he said softly, flicking his attention to her face. He caught her flinch, pressing her lips together. Heard her shallow sigh. She shook her head, her eyes closing an instant too long.

"No." It was gentle, resigned, final.

He dropped his gaze, the rejection still smarting despite the inevitability of it. He watched his thumbs tap each other in agitation upon his lap, trying to decide how far he wanted to go, how deep a hole to dig. He was tired of this. This waiting game. This lack of communication, cryptic wordplay, actions and words in opposition to each other. She was stringing him out...drawing him along; giving him hope only to shut him out again.

"Kate..." he wasn't sure what he wanted to say, but felt something needed to be said.

"Castle." she warned.

He looked at her profile with a quiet steady gaze, wishing he could discern the thoughts locked within her, feel the restrained emotions, share in the crushing burden she carried. His eyes roamed the planes of her face, from eyes to lips, chin to nose - letting the silence build to an expectant void. He saw her blink self-consciously in succession, work her jaw slightly. The pit in his stomach was deepening, the ache in his chest clenching with each passing second. He wanted this so badly. Too much. He was going to screw it up.

"I can't. Just give me some space, alright?" She was almost apologetic. In a demanding sort of way.

He averted his eyes, unable stop the sharp breath that escaped from his chest at her old line. Or the words that tumbled out on their own volition. "I'm your freaking partner." he mumbled.

"Exactly. Not my shrink."

He gave up. She wasn't letting him in. He'd pushed it as far as he dared; any further, and they'd be in a shouting match - most likely ending with him standing on the curb. He wouldn't put it past her. Or himself. Shifting in his seat, he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and withdrew his phone, tapping the maps application and selecting his bookmarks layer. Finding their usual Chinese take-out near the precinct, he pressed the number.

"Yes, order for two? Um, a number 12 and..." he pressed a palm to the microphone and tilted the phone away from his mouth as he directed a question towards Beckett. "What do you want?"

"I don't know." She seemed tired. "You pick."

"The usual? With a side of spring rolls?"

"No rolls."

He uncovered the mouthpiece. "-and a number 21. Fried rice for both. Oh, and extra sauce on the 21. Yes. That's it. Richard Castle. Yeah, I better still be in there. Ok. My work address. Thanks- Uh, how do you say your name? Thanks, Liu. Have a great afternoon." He hung up. "You think we'll be back in twenty minutes?"

"Traffic will be a lot better once we cross Houston. We'll be back in five."

"Good. No free lunch for Esposito and Ryan."

"They're still wrapping up the crime scene." she reminded him.

"I wouldn't put it past Gates either."

"Really? By the book, iron Gates? She'd have to cuff herself for larceny if she did."

"Eh, still don't trust her."

"Pretty sure the feeling's mutual."

_And what about you, Kate? Why don't you trust me?_"Yeah...I must be getting rusty. My charms are losing their power."

"Why, a little out of practice?"

"Apparently so." He didn't mean for it to sound so acerbic. Or directed at her.

She glanced at him, looking him in the eye for the first time since that dark moment in the cemetery. She let her eyes speak for her. They weren't hard or angry or rejecting as he had expected. They were resigned, hollow, tired. Her gaze was brief, and she slid it slowly away from him, as if it took too much effort.

Something broke inside him. He swallowed air, clenched his jaw, turned his face away to prevent himself from doing the absurd. Like cradle her against his chest. Kiss her forehead. Weep over her. Those wounded doe-eyes called to the deepest part of his psyche, eliciting a response of overbearing protectiveness and compassion, mingled with a desire to fight the world for her, establish a perimeter, create a safe haven in the storm of her past.

If only she would let him. If only she would trust him enough to confide in him. It hurt.

But what really knifed him was the intuition that he was somehow responsible for this. Or that she was holding him responsible. The reaction to his presence in the cemetery; the violent shove to break his hold; the unwillingness to meet his eyes. Her angst centered around him. He wanted to apologize; but he didn't know what for; he wanted to fix it, but she wasn't clueing him in.

"God, Kate." he rasped into the static silence, a raw utterance torn from his soul.

Beckett's hands tightened on the wheel as the Crown Vic rolled through the precinct parking garage and came to rest between the yellow lines, her breathing too shallow, pausing unnaturally at the vertices of her respiration. "I can't, Castle." she said quietly, eyes cast aside. Throwing the shaft into park, she reached to open her door. "I have a job to do. Respect that space, or you are going home."

"Then when?" He sat with his door still shut.

"Later." She slipped out and shut the door, the hollow echoes resounding through the empty space.

_Like three months later, Beckett? Like when one of us is dying? Like when I finally tire of this game and you murder my heart?_All the words died unspoken within his bosom; felt but not heard. He closed his eyes briefly, and the image of her helpless gaze rose unbidden before him.

Have a little patience, man.

He popped his door and shuffled out, hearing the lock click behind him, the lights pulsing briefly. The elevator wasn't far, and he rounded the corner with a swing in his exaggerated stride, his shoulders back, head set resolutely high, an amiable expression forced into his face. Using his physique to force his attitude into line. Trying to act the part in order to feel the part.

"You waited for me." he stated in genuine surprise, finding her standing with her arm across the double metallic doors.

"Of course." she squinted indignantly, and he caught another flash of hurt in her tone.

Damn. Great display of trust, Castle. He smiled in apology, hoping to allay his lack of faith in her. "Thanks. And I'm sorry."

She sighed, reaching forward to press the floor for homicide. "Esposito and Ryan found the purse and ID: our vic is thirty-four year old Victoria Hammond. I'm going to notify the next of kin, bring them in to identify the body and learn what I can of who this girl was and what she was into. Forensics should send me crime scene photos within a few hours. We should be able to build the murder board tonight with a decent amount of data."

Castle nodded, collecting himself, trying to suppress the heavy sense of foreboding that had settled over him. Beckett stood stiffly beside him, still avoiding his gaze, yet effectively enforcing a verbal restraining order against him. He was being forced to act a role, play ignorant of recent events, pretend the tension wasn't there.

Somehow, they'd screwed up. Probably last weekend. Poker at his place, wine at hers; a big mistake this late in the game. The boundaries of their work relationship had been blurred; the unspoken rule to feign innocence had been subconsciously breached. Somewhere in the last several weeks, they'd made too much progress. He knew he wasn't just her partner. And she knew she wasn't just his muse.

And now she was trying to redraw the lines, deny the inertia. Except the forward motion couldn't be reversed. They couldn't go back - not without someone getting hurt. Or both of them. Emotion and circumstance were accelerating the sand too fast through the hourglass: it was only a matter of time before the charade shattered.

* * *

><p>AN: Sorry, I know this one was a little shorter, but I will be posting again over the weekend, hopefully. Don't worry, just hang with me... there will be some good lovin' later on...you gotta have the angst to appreciate the fluff. :D


	3. Chapter 3

It was early on Wednesday, and Lanie was just getting back to the Hammond corpse from Monday afternoon. Although the prelim had indicated a pretty straight forward COD, she was eager to confirm it with a thorough examination. It's why she and Beckett worked so well together: both of them required hard proof.

Sliding the body slab out of the morgue freezer, she transferred the body onto a gurney and wheeled it back to her lab. After dragging the instrument tray to her side, she wedged a body block under the victim's back and adjusted the overhead lights to start her external exam.

Several swabs and a page of notes later, Lanie moved on to the internal examination. She had just finished severing the final rib to free the chest plate when the morgue doors flew open, causing her to jerk dangerously with the bone cutters as she startled.

"Castle!" she yelped. "What the hell? Do you NOT realize I work with dead people all day?"

"Um...Yes?" he looked confused.

"Then at least call before bustin' your ass in here."

"Oh. Sorry." He stood by the doors, shifting his weight, a weird look on his face; something she couldn't identify. Wariness, perhaps. And uncertainty.

"You look lost." She stared at him over the corpse.

He yawed his head and hummed slightly. "I, uh, am."

His demeanor was off; unnatural, confusing. "Beckett send you down here?" she said, trying to pinpoint what was going on.

His shifting face settled into a frustrated grimace, eyebrows drawing low and cheeks tightening upwards, crinkling the light out of his eyes. "No. She's shutting me out."

Oh. Bingo.

Lanie flattened her expression and cocked her head patronizingly towards him. "And so you're whining to me? Uh-uh."

"Lanie, I don't know what else to do!"

"What makes you think you need to do something?"

"I just want some advice. I can't - I don't - I'm tired of this. She does this every time it happens. And sometimes for no reason." He was pacing the doorway now, punctuating his words with exaggerated hand motions.

"Every time what happens?"

"A flashback. Her PTSD that she won't admit she has."

"Beckett always has a reason. Usually a good one too."

"Well, it'd be nice if she would share it with the team," he muttered darkly.

Lanie returned her attention to the corpse and pried the chest plate upwards, swiping her scalpel expertly at the soft tissues clinging to its internal surface.

Castle stared with morbid fascination at the solid sheet of bone and tendon. "That gives a whole new meaning to flat-chested," he quipped, unconsciously taking a step forward in curiosity.

"Do not move an inch closer, you freak. You contaminate this body and Beckett will be giving you more than a cold shoulder."

"Ok - I'll just...stay over here." He shuffled back. "Freak? Really?"

Lanie stared at the snarl of pericardial tissue and heart muscle created by the tumbling bullet. Her preferred method of retrieving a blood sample from the inferior vena cava was definitely out of the question. "Castle," she snapped in irritation, "I'm not sure what you're here for, but if you came to do some digging on MY best friend you've picked the wrong person to defect."

"Oh come on, don't tell me you haven't noticed? She's not sleeping well, working an ungodly amount of hours, overdosing on coffee, and not talking about it."

"Not talking to you, you mean."

"Well...so? What, has she been talking to you?"

"I'm not saying anything. But, in case you haven't noticed, I've been up to my ears in formaldehyde and bodies. I have a real job that doesn't give me time to do behavioral analysis on my co-workers."

"When was the last time you saw her?"

She glanced indignantly at him, retrieving her scalpel. "Why does it matter?"

"I'm just trying to figure out if you're blind, ignorant, or stonewalling."

Snapping to her full height, she glowered at him. "I forgive you. This once."

"Sorry." He mumbled. "I'm just..." he brought his arms around himself, shrinking back into the corner."I'm desperate. Monday was awkward. Yesterday was a minefield. And today I get here and find out she doesn't need my consultation." Castle threw his hands out for emphasis. "We've got two cases open - _two _- and she doesn't need my consultation. So yeah, Lanie, I'm here because I'm desperate, and she won't talk to me about it, and I'm about to throw in the towel and walk out. Because it's either that or have you cut my heart out and put me out of my misery."

She looked at him critically out of the corner of her eye. He was serious. "Wow, dramatic."

"Yeah, well, it's pretty damn near the truth!" Castle blinked a few times, staring at the floor with his arms crossed and fists tucked into his armpits. "I just - I need...I want to know how to fix this."

"Boy, you've got it bad, don't you?"

"You don't even know the half of it."

Lanie sighed and moved to examine the bowels. "The problem is, you're being a man."

He flipped his palms up in exasperation, a "No, really?" expression stamped on his face.

"You're coming to me trying to figure out how to fix things. Girls don't want to be fixed."

"I'm not trying to fix her; I'm trying to fix our...situation. Partnership. Whatever it is."

"Oh please Castle. Once you're on the inside, you'll keep working at her from every angle you know, trying to absorb the pain and fix the broken. That is not - necessarily - your place."

"Necessarily?"

"It becomes your place when she asks for it to be."

"I'm waiting...! -Been waiting for three years!"

"Bull shit you've been waiting that long! You hacked her mother's case, uninvited. You slept around like it was your job. You dumped her for your ex-wife. You-"

"Dumped her? _I_ dumped _her_?"

Oops. Beckett hadn't told him this? No, of course she wouldn't have. Too late now. "Yeah, Castle. You dumped her. She broke up with Demming. For you."

"What...?" Castle was frozen, eyebrows nearly touching in trepidation. He was baiting his breath, waiting for her explanation.

"She did it before you left." Lanie could hear his sharp inhale from across the room. "She was ready to trust you, thought you might be different from your playboy image. And as I recall, from what she said - you dumped her at the precinct, just before she could accept your invitation to the Hamptons. So yeah, Castle, don't give me that line about waiting for three years. And don't give me grief about her not trusting you."

"I - she - what?" he stammered, an incredulous expression on his face. "Ooh...I can't believe...I was so close - idiot!" Castle sagged his weight against the wall. "Oh you incompetent fool..." Moaning, he slid to the floor, elbows on his knees, hands to his face.

Minutes later, his words floated up to her from the corner. "You know, in my defense, she isn't the most communicative person. I didn't know."

"Mmm hmm."

"I didn't know." He whispered forlornly. Another silence. "I guess we're even. Summer for summer."

"I'm not laying blame. I'm just giving perspective."

"Well, look at it from my perspective: I try to say something and she shuts me down. I try to advance and she digs in her heels. What did you expect me to do? She was dating another man, Lanie! I felt I had made myself pretty clear and she turned me down."

"Did you come to sob to me, or to ask something in particular?"

"Woah! Lay off. I have feelings too, you know."

"I'm helping you get over yourself."

"Hey, do I look Hispanic? Stop transposing me with Javier."

"Boy you did NOT just go there."

Castle blew out his lungs in apologetic exasperation. "I'm sorry. I'm just tired of being jerked around."

Lanie looked over the corpse with sharp eyes, frowning in contemplation of his apology.

"Look," he threw his hands out before him. "I know I've screwed up. But I would like to think I've been pretty dedicated over the past year and a half. I mean c'mon! You know how much effort I put into her mother's case over the summer. When she wouldn't even talk to me. After all we'd been through, after I- after dying in my arms: she wouldn't even call." His eyes clouded, his words trailing into silence. "You just don't do that to a man."

Almost against her will, Lanie felt an awful streak of compassion for him. She'd watched his decline over the summer; from hot-headed, confident searching to gasping hopelessness as each lead dried up in a dead end. With each day Kate didn't call. She had seen him wander the precinct halls, developing theory; had caught him sitting in Beckett's chair, head in his hands, eyes bleary from too many hours of screen time. She'd overheard the whispers between Kevin and Javier, concerned about his erratic eating and sleeping. None of them had dared to ask the question burning through each of their minds: what the hell had happened? They had merely watched him throw himself in desperation at her mother's case: both his initial transgression and his final apology to the woman who had been wrenched from his arms.

She felt the need to derail his thoughts, pull him back to the present. "Castle. She came back. To you. For what it's worth, I've never seen her do that."

"Yeah, I know." He sighed, rolled to his feet and extended an arm against the morgue door. "Thanks Lanie. Sorry I interrupted."

"Wait, where d'ya think you're goin'?"

"I don't know. Away." The door swung outwards.

"Oh no. We are not done here."

He looked over his shoulder in puzzlement, halting half-way out, the door braced open.

"What's your plan?" Lanie queried.

He shrugged helplessly. "Give her space, I guess. It's what she wants."

"Not the solution here, Castle."

Castle twisted back inside and allowed the door to swing shut. "Stop being so cryptic."

"You're reading into my words. I didn't say leave her alone. I said don't try to fix her."

He stood against the door frame, arms folded, waiting.

"Kate Beckett is my best friend. I'm giving you my two cents because I care about her. But I've seen you go through hell and back for her, and that means something to a girl."

"Sometimes I wonder..."

"It's why I haven't tossed you outta here. I've seen you two drag each other through enough shit already. I'm only going to say this once, and if you breathe a word of this to her, or anyone else, I will be performing a vivisection. On you."

He nodded, unblinking.

"Beckett's...deep. She's got a lot going on. Don't think you have her all figured out. I'm going to speak in your language for a moment, and I don't want a literary critique at the end. I just want it through your skull."

"I'm listening."

"I don't need to tell you she's wounded. Like an injured animal. And that woundedness? Draws men like moths to a flame. Sharks to blood. No matter how hard she tries to hide it, your species can find the scent leaking out from the cracks in her armor; causes men to get up on their white horses and try to play the hero. You following me Castle?"

"Go on." His eyes were serious.

"Don't be thinkin' you're any different. Don't tell me her mystery isn't what draws you in, keeps you coming back for more."

Castle cast his eyes sideways. "Maybe at first. The story." He met her eyes. "Not anymore. I just want her to find peace. Be happy."

"You judge your own motives, Castle. But out of self-preservation, Kate's crawled into a thicket large enough to hide her and sharp enough to protect her. She's been dropped too many times by life, men, circumstance - you name it."

He shifted his weight against the doorframe, cocked his head. "I'm not sure I'm seeing your point."

"You think she wants to stay isolated and broken? She's a woman, with dreams and wants and desires and needs, and as much as life has stifled her hope, it's still there. She just hasn't found anyone man enough to crawl in there with her."

"Lanie, I'm trying!" He flipped his hands up in exasperation.

"Well stop sulking every time you get scratched, and you might actually get somewhere!"

"Look, I understand the illustration. Could you translate that into real life?"

"You wanna get close to her? You're gonna get ripped, cut up, stabbed, and hurt. I don't know exactly how you feel about her-"

"I love her." he whispered.

The silence was deafening.

Lanie removed smeared hands from the body and rocked back on her heels to stare at him. Tried to decide how to respond to that bombshell as she intentionally allowed the space to stretch and grow heavy. "So?" She finally shrugged, searching his face, testing him. "You've said that before. Twice."

He winced, looked down and scuffed his toe. "Yeah, well she's the only one who's taught me what it means."

"Taught?" She arched an eyebrow.

"Teaching. It's hard." His eyes snapped to hers and steadied. "Worth it."

She held his gaze for a charged moment, discerning the depths of his commitment, gauging the amount of resolve in his eyes. "There's no formula here, Castle. A lot of pain, a lot of balancing, a lot of shit." She paused again. He waited. "But don't leave her alone."

He bit his cheek, contemplating her meaning.

"She's holding you off because you're getting closer. Prove to her you can handle not just her, but her baggage too. Get scratched and push through it anyway." She leveled her eyes at him. "That means not pushing her. Not blowing up in her face. Not walking off. Not being impatient. If it's love, it's unconditional love, Castle. Otherwise, it's a no go."

He nodded slowly, muttering something.

She squinted, catching only a few words. "What about always?"

"Nothing. Just gives it a new meaning." he said cryptically.

She frowned. "Ok..."

He arched his back and pushed himself off the doorframe, dropping his hands into his pockets and stepping a few strides towards the table. "Thanks Lanie. You've helped. Tremendously."

"Just don't screw it up."

He tilted his head as he turned on his heel. "Not planning on it."

"Castle?" she called to his retreating back. He glanced over his shoulder, once again. She hefted a scalpel. "Remember - vivisection. Do I need to define that for you?"

He gave her a broad grin. "No, I've got it." The door swished, and he was gone.

She stood for several minutes, thoughts spinning through her brain. As she turned her attention back to the neglected corpse, she chuckled and glanced at the dead woman's face. "Did you hear all that? Now there's a good man." Reaching around the superior organs with one hand, she maneuvered her scalpel with the other. "Think Javi would talk to Beckett?" She barked a laugh into the silence. "Yeah, I didn't think so."

* * *

><p>Castle drummed his fingers on the corner of his laptop. Reached for his coffee cup. Found it empty. Tapped the disposable cup a few times on the small granite table top, eyes unfocused and staring at nothing, thoughts turned inward. Sighing, he released the cup and poised his hands over the keys, fingertips tickling their surfaces, waiting, waiting. No words came, no clever line unfolded itself.<p>

He hadn't even planned on writing today. He'd planned on solving two murders. Instead, he found himself alone at Three of Cups, a coffee house on the corner of First Ave and East Fifth St, a short walk from the 12th. Trying to force writing that wouldn't come.

It wasn't that his mind was blank; it was quite the opposite. But his thoughts refused to unwind and coalesce. Nikki Heat and Jameson Rook and murderers and dialogue were all in there, but they were muted and confused, suppressed and inaccessible. Plot points smashed themselves upon a quagmire of emotions; tension and dread battled hope and aspiration. If he could find even a small thread, he could pounce upon it and use it to draw out its elusive companions, but there was nothing so defined. His brain was just...full. It was a specific type of writer's block. An emotional block.

Sighing in frustration, he stretched his legs out beside the cast iron post supporting the circular one-man table at which he sat, dragging a hand down his face. He needed to resolve his thoughts: figure out the exact issue that had everything spinning.

His talk with Lanie had been encouraging; so much so that he had returned to his muse and endured the abrasiveness for a few more hours of paper trails and theorizing. But by noon, he'd come to a tough realization. His presence wasn't just annoying her - it was hindering her. Her thought patterns were fragmented, her methodology confused, her sharp attention to detail in shambles. At first he'd chalked it up to her PTSD symptoms, but a brush with Ryan in the break room had forced him to reevaluate.

"So what'd you do Castle? Kill her puppy?" Ryan had asked.

"I know, right? PTSD's a bitch."

"PTSD? She's fine until you show up, then everything goes haywire." He had sported an accusing look that had left Castle scrambling.

"What - you think I caused this?"

"Mom and dad fighting again?"

"Oh no, I'm not so lucky. That requires communication. I'm as clueless as you."

Ryan had shrugged, unconvinced. But his words had nagged at Castle the rest of the morning, and after ensuring Beckett downed several pieces of pizza for lunch, he had excused himself to write. He had thought she would be relieved, but when he caught her eye as he drew on his jacket the expression was one of guilt. Guilt and remorse. It had startled him. And added further to the puzzle, especially since she had then proceeded to grab his laptop bag and hand it to him, her movements an unspoken apology.

Castle's laptop flickered, and the words "YOU SHOULD BE WRITING" began scrolling across the blank screen. He growled and snapped the display shut. Whisking the empty cup off the table, he shoved his chair back as he rose and in a few steps he slammed the cup into a waiting trash bin. She was being impossible. No, worse than that. If she was just being obstinate, he could be angry about it. But these deep looks, these hesitant mannerisms she was giving him were driving him insane. They made him want to cradle her face in his hands, draw her to him, whisper to her. They made him want to break her, force himself into her world, scream at the door she had shut between them. They gave him hope and broke his heart all in one breath.

"Kate," he groaned to himself as he sank back into his seat, "What the hell is going on?"

He opened his laptop again, brought up a new document. He would write. It was time to figure this out. A steady stream of thoughts poured through his fingers as he typed whatever came to mind. Fragments of his conversation with Lanie, Tuesday's frustrations, Monday's emotions, his thoughts and observations mixed with Beckett's words and actions; all out of order but finding its way to the screen. He just had to puke it out; his brain was sorting it, untangling, working subconsciously to connect all the threads.

Her flashback, staring into his eyes, terrified.

The fist to his chest, knocking him away, the blow to his heart, forcing a rift between them. She shut him out. Again.

"I'll call you, ok?" She never called. Three months, and she never called.

Their moment in the Crown Vic, her stalling again. "Later."

Lanie's words: "Kate's crawled into a thicket large enough to hide her and sharp enough to protect her...She just hasn't met anyone man enough to crawl in there with her."

I love her. I love you, Kate.

"You've said that before, twice."

Is that where this was going? Sure he wanted her, wanted her to want him, wanted them, together...but was he ready to bear a ring? He'd been there. And it had left its toll on him. If he was going there again, he had to be sure. Had to know she wouldn't betray his soul with another man. Had to know she wouldn't love his money more than his heart. Had to know she would stand by him, always.

Kate's words, light and teasing: "I'm more of a one and done type."

And she was. He knew it. And that scared him. A ring was a heavy, heavy thing. He'd learned, painfully, that it wasn't the happily ever after promised in fairytales and stories. And if he started this thing with her, it was only going one direction. They had both spent enough time fooling around; both of them were adults. Castle had never seen himself as a rich man with a mistress. And he didn't see Kate as the type to jerk him around.

Like she was now.

He stopped typing, sighed, rubbed both palms through his hair as he leaned back. His brain was unfrozen now, churning through thoughts and emotions far quicker than his fingers could move.

Forget marriage; that was just an outward expression of a mutual, inward commitment. He had to figure out their relationship first. Or whatever it was. He had to figure out how far he would go. What 'always' really meant. She was teaching him love. Slow, difficult, painful love. The kind that counted.

The gravity of what it really meant to pursue her was just hitting him.

And that brought up a question. He had to ask himself that if she betrayed him, hurt him, loved her job more than him, loved her mom more than their future, loved her independence more than the pain of self-sacrifice that was required in a relationship - if she failed to love him as he needed to be loved - he needed to know that he was willing to keep pursuing her. Forgive, work through it. Again and again, if he had to. Seventy times seven. Always.

Lanie's words floated back to him again: "You wanna get close to her? You're gonna get ripped, cut up, stabbed, and hurt."

All that was gonna happen.

"If it's love, it's unconditional love, Castle. Otherwise, it's a no go."

Yeah, no kidding.

He wasn't perfect. He was going to screw it up. A lot. But if she was in it with him, _really _in it with him, then they'd make it.

So was she? Did she want this enough?

Million dollar question, right there.

Her face came to mind, back in the Crown Vic, returning from the cemetery Monday afternoon - Her eyes tired, resigned, wounded. The brief flash of hurt when he had expressed surprise at her waiting for him at the elevator. The traces of guilt when she had handed him his laptop bag this afternoon: she knew she had driven him away.

She wanted him to find her. She wanted him to get through the thorns and stand beside her.

It was a start, and it was enough. She was worth the risk.

He sat up with a suddenness, scraping his soles against the floor as he pulled his feet beneath his seat, his spine a resolute line supporting his shoulders as he leaned forward and dragged his fingers across the mouse pad. He needed to understand, needed insight; needed something to help him determine a new course of action. Returning to the disorganized document, he started scanning back through it, looking for something to hit him the right way, a clue to give him the missing puzzle piece.

He paused at Ryan's words, his brain nagging at something.

"She's fine until you show up, then everything goes haywire."

He thought back to the PTSD research he had done when she first began showing signs. Of how people avoided things that specifically reminded them of the traumatic moment, how they became irritable and stressed when reminded of the event.

It fit. Somehow, he was her trigger.

But she had no memory of her shooting...didn't remember him tackling her, cradling her, pleading with her to stay with him. Didn't remember his three most important words to her. So how could he be her specific trigger? Why not Ryan and Esposito, or Lanie? They had all been present as well. And why now? She'd spent countless hours in his presence without batting an eye.

Unless something had changed.

On Monday. When he had stood over her in a graveyard beneath a blue sky.

Oh God.

She remembered.

* * *

><p>AN: I'm almost done with the next chapter as well…I'll post it in a few days. It's all Beckett and Castle at her apartment…nothing huge, but lots of tension and a few surprises. ;-) Thanks again to all my awesome reviewers; you keep the tank full so I can keep sputtering over my keyboard!


	4. Chapter 4

It was cold. The wind was brutal, funneling through streets and twisting along alleys, branding the skin with a burning chill. Beckett dropped a leg to support the weight of her Harley Softail as she waited on a red light, welcoming the moment to cup her frozen fingers around her lips and blast them with warm air in an attempt to resuscitate their blood flow. It was a futile attempt. She cursed softly to herself and stretched her shirtsleeves beyond the cuffs of her leather jacket, gripping them around her fists before shoving her hands into her armpits. There was no residual warmth in the chilled skin of the jacket, but at least it sheltered them from the wind.

Somehow, she had misplaced her gloves throughout the course of the day. She always stuffed them into the pockets of her bike jacket when she entered the precinct in the morning, but when she had dropped her hands to her pockets in the precinct garage tonight she had come up empty. Despite retracing her steps through homicide she had failed to locate them: another testament to the unraveling of her structured composure this week.

The light turned and traffic flowed, and Beckett gritted her teeth as she returned her hands to the icy handles and rolled back on the throttle. It was nearing seven o'clock and the sun had set hours ago, abandoning its attempt to warm the city air. She managed to keep the edges of her sleeves pulled over her fingers, but the thin material was useless against the slicing headwind. Her physical misery exacerbated the desperate feelings of frailty and uncertainty roiling through her, setting her further on edge and causing her to bitterly question why the fates hated her. She was exhausted. Frustrated. Freezing.

Monday she had stayed at the precinct and worked through the night to avoid the nightmares that always accompanied the flashbacks. Tuesday she had forced herself home but only managed a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. This morning she had opted for the bike commute on a whim; the slight adrenaline kick and rush of cold air had sharpened her senses and brought back a sense of control.

Until Castle had marched in, unbidden, and set her emotions off into an uncontrolled tailspin.

Her flashbacks always left her reeling for a few days. It was unfortunate for him that he happened to be at the center of her most recent episode; that he was the rock that disturbed the waters. But if it was merely the emotional hiccups caused by her PTSD, she could handle it. No; it was more than that. It was that and their partnership; that and a stolen kiss that still tingled across her lips; that and a freezer, a dirty bomb, a hangar, a sniper. That and moment in a graveyard which changed everything. That and the lie she spoke, burying the truth where it tortured her with each of his patient stares, his questioning eyes, his trusting confidence in her.

Their convoluted relationship was enough to set off any woman's emotional equilibrium. Throw in her heavy past with her present flashbacks and the situation approached insanity. Because she couldn't discern how she felt. Couldn't separate her ache for him from the scars of past lovers: men she had trusted, confided in; men that had betrayed her loyalties and built the scar tissue protecting her heart. Will, Royce...her captain. And Castle. Her logic failed to navigate the emotional jungle within her; she couldn't see the stars through the trees.

The bike sputtered and died as Beckett reversed the key in the ignition, parking it below her apartment. She didn't bother removing her helmet as she made her way up the stairs and down the hall to her door, pressing her clawed knuckles against her sides in a desperate effort to loosen their frozen joints. On the second attempt to open her door she decided it was time to retire the bike for the winter; on the third she decided she may not bring it out of storage until August.

The keys slipped and fell to the floor. She cursed again and bent to retrieve them, knocking her helmet against the doorknob on the way down and throwing herself off balance, banging her knuckles into the doorframe as she tried to catch herself before finally dropping heavily onto one knee.

She stayed there, drawing a ragged breath. Nothing was simple anymore. She'd been overwhelmed all day, experiencing everything from anger to hopelessness to frustration to apathy in never-ending cycles. She just wanted sleep: a respite from reality.

Damn these emotions. Sometimes, she hated being a woman. Damn these flashbacks, this PTSD, these uncontrollable feelings she had for her partner. She rested her helmet in the angle made by the frame meeting the door, her forehead pressing into the padding as she leaned her weight forward and squeezed her eyes shut, using the pressure to keep it all in and force back the frustration.

She wouldn't cry.

She could make it until tomorrow. Tomorrow morning she would go see her therapist; have him untangle her, help her navigate this nightmare. She centered herself on that thought and opened her eyes, dragging her fingers across her keys. She wouldn't break down here; she just had to hold out till the morning. But she was on thin ice; spidered and cracking and dangerously slick.

Finally gaining entry, she dropped her keys in the bowl near the door, hauled off her helmet and wrestled out of her jacket before making a beeline for the kitchen sink. Turning on the water, she stuck her elbow in to test the temperature before plunging her hands beneath the warm cascade. Bent at the waist, resting her forearms on the sink edge, she hung her head in relief and fatigue. She was going to bed as soon as possible tonight. Hopefully her body would shut down from sheer exhaustion and emotional overload. Perhaps she would take her trazadone tonight - a sleep med prescribed by her therapist - but probably not. She hated the residual drugged feeling when she woke in the morning. But, if she went to bed by eight...her brain ticked through the hours...the medication would be out of her system by the time she woke. So she could. She was desperate enough.

After an indeterminate amount of time, her knees began to protest her position over the sink, reminding her she had yet to remove her heels. She waited another few minutes before reluctantly drawing her hands out of the delicious heat and reaching for a dish towel. Stepping to the kitchen entry, she reached down and unzipped her boots before standing and using one shoe to remove the other, kicking them into the adjacent room in the general direction of her jacket lying haphazardly across the couch. She was beyond caring.

Opening the fridge, she growled in frustration. She hadn't restocked over the weekend. Her eyes fell on a nondescript styrofoam box; Italian leftovers from Sunday night's dinner. Grabbing at it, she dumped the contents onto a plate and shoved it into the microwave before walking off to locate the trazadone. She'd take one now to give it time to kick in before bedtime.

Half way through her penne in cheesy marinara sauce, there was a knock on the door.

Beckett stopped chewing and raised her head, her fork hovering over her plate, suddenly grateful she hadn't bothered to remove her Sig from her waist holster. Her tired, tense brain had been ravage by her emotions and assumed the worst. She shouldn't have taken that sleeping pill.

If it was an intruder, the next noise would be splintering wood, or a scratching in the lock. She strained her hearing, the food suddenly awkward and dry in her mouth.

But all she heard was another knock, a little bolder this time. So it probably wasn't anyone dangerous. Cautiously, she finished chewing and slowly rose, silencing her movements just in case.

Sliding towards the hinge side of her front door, she removed her gun with one hand as she reached the peephole and glanced through. The adrenaline drained rapidly out of her as she caught sight of Castle, looking cold and playing with his phone.

She couldn't deal with this right now. Maybe tomorrow, after she had gotten some sleep and talked with her therapist; but not now. Not when the ice was cracking and that sudden tide of adrenaline had left her brittle and near breaking. She drew an indecisive breath, briefly contemplating ignoring him and immediately feeling terribly guilty about that impulse.

Castle's ringtone shattered the silence from the pocket of her jeans, causing her to startle violently. She had maxed the volume on her phone for her bike ride and forgotten to re-adjust it; no way he hadn't heard the tones through the door.

She holstered her gun before twisting the knob and stepping back as she opened the door.

"Beckett, hey - I was just calling you."

She feigned nonchalance. "Sorry, I was in the other room. What's going on?" He better be quick - she was going to be knocked out in another thirty minutes or so, and she still needed a shower.

"I uh-" he reached into his jacket pockets "-found these."

She stared at her gloves. "Where?"

"Well, I sort of just realized I had them."

"YOU had them?"

"Sorry - I found them by the expresso machine this morning and put them in my pocket to return them to you -because I was using both my hands to carry our coffee- but then I...got distracted and forgot I had them when I left." He paused briefly, checking his ramble. "I just discovered them after dinner."

He was holding them close to his body instead of offering them to her for a quick drop-off.

"You came all the way over here just to return them? You could have just called."

He shrugged. "I was returning from dinner anyway. It was on the way."

She didn't buy it.

"Can I come in?"

Several phrases shot through her brain: a dozen excuses, all variations of _"Hell no you can't!" _But she merely stuttered slightly and moved back as he stepped forward in the face of her hesitation, surprising her with his assertive boldness. She saw him take in her apartment in one sweep; the garments haphazardly strewn about, the styrofoam box on the counter, her half-eaten dinner waiting on the table. She shut the door and turned back to find him facing her.

"Any new developments on our stiffs?"

She shrugged. "No new hits on the sketch for the DiMassou case, not yet. The kid wasn't as helpful as we had hoped. And the Hammond murder...not much that you don't already know. We did get a subpoena for the court documents we requested, though. You know that ongoing legal case she opened two years ago, where she prosecuted her cousin in an inheritance dispute?"

"Yeah?"

"Her husband testified against her."

"He didn't mention that in our interview."

"Yeah, or the fact that it was actually _his _cousin, not hers."

"Oh ho...her marriage goes bad and she went after ALL their money."

Beckett relaxed slightly. She could talk about work. Logic and theory. Easy. "It gets better. Apparently, her family and his family share a common ancestor a few generations back. He was a steel tycoon - his inheritance launched their respective families into wealth. Meaning she might have had a shot at winning since she was, legally, a blood descendant."

"Whoah! Family feud!"

"Maybe. Gives us somewhere to start looking."

"Why not arrest the husband?"

"Alibi, remember?"

"But it's so _obvious_; even if he didn't pull the trigger I can guarantee you he was behind it." He wagged her gloves in her face, and she grabbed them out of his hand.

"I thought you'd learned about our process of collecting evidence by now."

"Yeah, but I got a smile." he said, lifting a corner of his mouth.

Damn it. Emotions.

Beckett looked down, smoothed her gloves. Realized how hard she'd been on him over the past few days. "I'm sorry. About today. I hope you got some writing done."

"Not really."

She tensed her jaw and looked off to the left, fighting the guilt and turmoil that suddenly accosted her, tightening her throat and twisting her gut. He needed to leave. Now. Before she lost control.

Instead, he reached back beneath his jacket and drew out a modest bouquet of flowers. "I thought this might, I don't know, help. Couldn't think of anything else."

Everything within her clenched; she felt nauseous and flushed and ice cold as she stared at the bright petals, unable to breathe.

He stepped into her space, the flowers between them. "You know it's not about the books anymore, Kate."

No, Castle. Don't say it.

The silence stretched, and she slowly raised her hand, brought her fingers around the ribbon-wrapped stems above his grip. He released the bouquet, but brought his palm around her knuckles, his fingertips feather-light on the back of her hand, barely caressing the skin.

"I'm trying to understand." The tenderness in his voice was breaking her, pounding on the thin ice she balanced upon.

She moved her hand back and stepped away, needing the distance. She wouldn't cry.

"But it's hard when I don't get much back, you know?" His face was open, asking.

She heaved a breath and survived another wave of overwhelming pressure. "Castle, stop."

"I can't."

She looked at him briefly, caught the intense seriousness in his stare, the storm in his eyes, the determined line of his jaw. She wasn't the only one fighting emotion.

"Kate, I can't keep playing this game. I follow you around from case to case. I dodge bullets with you, I hold you in my arms when we don't have a chance. I follow you every week now; I watch you struggle and pick yourself up and fight this all on your own. And I'm not allowed to speak, not allowed to touch, not allowed to acknowledge the ache that we both carry. You tell me to wait, and I do, I have, I've waited and followed and cried for you and I don't know what else to do." His voice cracked on the last note. "It's not enough anymore. Can you see?"

Somehow, sometime after Royce and before Demming, she had made the subconscious decision that men would only date Detective Beckett: her stronger half. She laughed with them, slept with them, fought with them - but she never cried with them. Never revealed how deep her scars really were.

But with Castle, it was all backwards.

She was going to cry.

"How long do I have to wait before you admit you want this?"

She did want this, wanted it so badly. He knew that, right? She was doing everything in her power so she could keep this one. So their relationship could survive her past.

"Kate?" he was starting to sound panicked.

She needed to say something, but the words were stuck behind the tears of frustration building within her. She dropped her head to hide her furious blinking as she struggled for control, searched for words. He was springing this too soon, with terrible timing; she wasn't ready - still drowning in her own anxiety and incertitude.

"Say something, damn it!"

He needed to know. He had to know.

She dropped the flowers and stepped forward in two rapid strides, reaching to grab the sides of his face with her hands. She caught a glimpse of his startled eyes before her lips closed the distance and landed over his, hard and desperate and speaking the words she couldn't form. Hoping the action would distract the tears and ease the aching in her soul.

She realized her plan had failed as he kissed her back: gently, caressing, absorbing her recklessness and refusing to battle. She felt his fingers slip beneath her hair and the warmth of his palm wrap around the curve of her neck, his thumb gently pressing against her ear.

It was too much, too tender. The ice broke, overwhelming her, and she choked a sob against his mouth before tearing herself away and turning from him, her chest heaving with the beginnings of an emotional breakdown.

"Kate." His voice, rough.

She whirled back and braced an arm against his advancing chest before pushing past him towards her bedroom. He could let himself out.

She didn't expect his hand to wrap around her elbow in a steel grip, and her momentum brought her spinning back to face him.

"You can't just kiss me. I need words, Kate." he said, his voice low and thick.

She watched his demeanor change as he noticed the tears beginning to trail her cheeks.

"You're crying," he whispered.

Her elbow was suddenly free, his eyes darting back and forth between hers, fear and uncertainty and questioning all swirling together in their depths. "Talk to me," he breathed, desperation lacing his tone. "What did I do?"

"Nothing," she stuttered. "It's not you." Her arms hung limply at her sides, the tears welling up and spilling over.

His brows drew closer together. "Then what?"

She shook her head, her face involuntarily scrunching as a fresh wave came over her. "I don't know, Rick! If I knew, I could fix it!" She swiped fiercely at her eyes. "You think I asked for this? Being broken? It just happens, and I can't control it - just like all the other shit in my life!" The tears were flowing faster now; her last few words choked and broken.

A hand wrapped around the back of her head; the pressure drew her forward into a firm warmth, her tears weaving into the soft material pressed to her face. Castle's other hand slid across the width of her shoulder blades until the full length of his arm braced her against him, surrounding her with his strength and security as his cheek dropped to the crown of her head.

"You don't have to do this alone." he whispered.

She twisted both fists into his shirt, burrowing herself deeper into his chest, feeling her last shred of resolve crumble in his embrace. Heaving several sobs, she drew the fabric against her face, allowing him to support her weight as she melted against him.

"I'm so-orry," she whimpered between breaths, "I'm sorry..."

"No, shhh..." his fingers were tangling themselves into her hair, crushing her to him."Get it out."

A few more sobbing breaths later, she began to bring herself under control. She turned her face sideways, laying her temple against his sternum as she steadied her breathing and loosed the crumpled material from her fists, freeing her hands to slide down around his ribs and clasp lightly behind his lower back.

"You're going to have to wash your shirt." she said, her voice frayed but steady. "It's got snot in it."

He rumbled in his chest and she closed her eyes with the feel of it.

"I really don't mind." he hummed, dropping his lips to her hair. "I've got what I need right here."

Lightning shot downwards at his bold words, spiraling deep within her. She made a conscious effort to stay relaxed, unsure of how to respond.

"Of course," he continued, "if it's bothering you, I can take it off. I think yours got a little wet too, hmm?"

She smiled, rolling her eyes out of reflex as she turned to touch her nose to his chest and mumbled "Very funny, playboy" while lightly thumping her clasped hands against his back.

He rumbled again, and she thought this definitely needed to be a repeat experience: making him laugh while holding her. Not the crying.

She didn't pull away, and he didn't release her, but slowly stroked her hair and smoothed little circles across her shoulder blades, keeping his jaw pressed over her head.

"I'm seeing a therapist." She said softly. "So this can work."

Both his arms descended around her and he squeezed her tightly before releasing her as his hands moved to her shoulders, pressing her gently away. She reluctantly loosened her hold and allowed a small amount of space between them, inwardly wincing as his warmth left her.

"You want this to work-" He stared into her eyes. "-that much."

She gave a nod, suddenly and unexpectedly feeling tears prick again behind her eyes. She started to drop her head, but two of his fingers found the verge of her chin and pressed upwards, forcing her to meet his eyes again.

The adoration and tenderness she found in them electrified the hairs on the nape of her neck, and when she saw his eyes flick to her lips she flushed with heat and anticipation. His hands moved up to cup around both sides of her head, his thumbs resting in front of her ears where her jaw joined her skull. She felt her breath shorten to almost nothing as he paused, seeming to take in all of her with his eyes.

He leaned forward, tilted her head down, and pressed his lips to her forehead, an expression of gratitude and appreciation. Her shoulders melted, and she clenched her hands against his waist to steady her balance. His thumbs pressed again, this time angling her up towards him, and his lips descended over hers.

After all his innuendos, all his bragging, all his base remarks...she would never have pegged him as a tender, considerate lover.

She was wrong.

The way his lips moved over hers was as a leaf twirling on the water, as a silk cocoon swaying in the breeze. She couldn't suppress the small sound that escaped with her sigh, and he dropped his arms around her and pulled her to him, his tongue caressing her top lip with a question; her mouth parting farther with an answer.

His taste was as mulled wine, spiced and warm; his tongue as melted chocolate, thick and dark.

He was forced to step back as she dropped her weight into him, her hands sliding up his back to press between his shoulder blades. She could have taken control; but she didn't: she could have accelerated the passion; but she floated, letting his whims direct her.

An eternity later, yet too soon, he broke away and heaved a breath as he stared into her face.

"Kate..." he breathed, "you are...astounding." He trailed off, his right thumb moving to swipe at her cheekbone, a tiny smile on his face. "Stop crying."

"I'm not," she denied, dropping her cheek against his still-damp shirt and rubbing the evidence away. "It's your fault."

"Why, whatever do you mean?" he aired as she rested her forehead on his shoulder.

"I'm supposed to punch you right now but I can't find the energy."

"Oh really? Why so?" She could hear his smile in the words. His self-satisfied, smug smile. Because he knew he had her.

She turned her face into the crook of his neck. "Just shut up."

He laughed again, held her a while longer with a light sway in his stance. She dropped her lashes, waiting for her heart to slow and her strength to return. She had emptied herself, and he had filled her up; she had broken, and he held the pieces.

She felt him shift, and his warm breath danced across her ear, the words soft and whimsical. "Friday night."

"Mmm?" She was getting sleepy.

"Go out with me."

She blinked, thought about it; her brain was slowing down. "Where?"

"I'll pick. But it'll be casual, low key, simple. No heavy lifting. Just fun."

"Mhmm."

"What was that?"

"Yep."

"Perfect." He craned his neck and dropped a quick kiss on her temple.

She closed her eyes.

"Hey, what are you trying to do, knock me over?"

"Huh?" she opened her eyes and realized she had placed practically all her weight into him. "Sorry. Tired." She felt another wave hit her and fluttered her lids.

"You're falling asleep."

"Yep."

"You okay down there?"

"Perfect." she mumbled.

"Kate." he pushed against her and ducked his head to look at her face.

She grumbled at being forced to support her own weight, but the struggle to hold her balance forced some alertness into her mind. "I wanted a shower, you fool." She thumped her palm into his shoulder.

He waggled his eyebrows. "It's only eight o'clock. We've got time."

"Har har. Not happening. I'd drown. It's bedtime." She rolled away from him and stepped towards her bedroom, leaving him standing in the middle of the entry.

"Seriously? Eight o'clock? What are you, ninety years old?" he called after her.

She heard him, but her bedroom was as a magnet. She walked through the door and dropped face-down onto the bed. She should probably change into pajamas, brush her teeth, wash off her makeup; she would, in a moment...

Castle's laughter startled her, it was so close, and she felt his hand tugging on her shoulder, rolling her slightly.

"Castle..." she grumbled, drawing her arm up the duvet and burrowing her face into it, shrugging off his hand.

"I've never had a woman fall asleep so fast after a first kiss. We may have to work on this if we want to get any farther."

She flicked up two fingers above her head, her face still covered by the crook of her elbow. "Second kiss."

"Oh good, you count that one too."

"Never forgot it."

"That was a pretty badass first kiss."

"Mhhmm."

"And a pretty badass second kiss."

She smiled seductively, moving her arm slightly so she could see him with one eye. "You like kissing me, huh?"

"A prodigious understatement."

She snorted and buried her face again to hide her expanding smile. "Writers."

"You are adorable when you're drugged." It was close, spoken into her ear.

She flicked her elbow up and caught him on the chin, a warmth spiraling through her at his casual endearment.

The laughter came from somewhere above her; he must have stood up. "I saw the sleep meds in the kitchen. Where are your pajamas?"

"Uhmm...top drawer, right side." She flailed her hand in the direction of the dresser, her eyes struggling to focus.

The sound of a drawer opening was shortly followed by smothering darkness as something landed across her face.

"Should I start with your buttons or your zipper?"

That did it. She reached up and snagged the clothes off her face, rolling onto her back and throwing out an arm to deter his advances. But he was standing several feet away, chuckling.

"Get out of here, Castle."

"Not until I see you sit up."

She grumbled and swung her legs over the edge, pushing herself upwards and looking at him sullenly.

"Good job!"

"I'm still wearing my gun." She fumbled her fingers over the clasp and opened the holster.

"Good point. Although you probably couldn't hit anything right now."

"I'm drowsy, Castle, not inept!"

"So she says..." he mocked. "Look, I'm going to put your dinner away, and by that I mean throw it away, and I'll be back in two minutes." He paused in the doorway. "Hopefully, you'll only be half-dressed."

She contemplated throwing her pajamas at him, but realized she would then have to retrieve them. The door shut, and she struggled out of her jeans and managed the shirt buttons without too much difficulty, casting the clothing onto the floor and dropping her gun onto the nightstand. Snagging the yoga pants and tank top he had retrieved for her, she slipped into them, the activity restoring enough energy to stumble to the bathroom and run a quick brush over her teeth, a washcloth over her cheeks. The makeup could suffer.

He was in her bedroom when she returned, a glass of water in hand. She grabbed it, drank a few sips, handed it back. She descended to her pillow, landing on her side facing away from him, tucking her legs beneath the sheets.

"Did you want to sleep with this?"

"Hmm?" she struggled to catch what he meant, then felt the back of his fingers against her skin, the chain of her mother's ring slipping between them. She rolled towards him. "Oh. No."

"May I?"

"Sure. Little box on the dresser."

His hands ghosted across her face as they lifted the necklace past her chin and over her forehead. Her lashes lowered as they passed over, only to open in surprise at the unexpected press of his lips to hers. But he shifted before she could respond, and her lids dropped again as he kissed the soft skin near her eye where tears had coursed a short while before.

His lips whispered against her. "Any more than that and I'm going to end up in there with you."

She shuddered slightly at the seriousness and finality in his voice, suddenly feeling nervous and insecure. He wasn't playing around; he was intent on one thing. And it wasn't getting in bed with her. She knew he could have played his cards differently: he could have pushed and charmed a little more - she would have agreed to anything after that kiss. But he hadn't. He'd brought her water and tucked her in with a chaste kiss. He was walking her into this with a clarity and direction that had her scrambling. It scared her. She wasn't in control of this one.

"I'll see you at nine tomorrow." she said. It felt weird to bring work into the conversation; their roles had been suddenly reversed.

"That's late. For you."

"I'm going to my therapist tomorrow."

"Ah, good. I'll see you at nine." He leaned in again. "Christmas blend or skinny vanilla latte?"

She smiled. "Surprise me."

His finger slid along her forehead and tucked a strand behind her ear. "Good night, Kate."

"Night, Castle." She was already drifting, fading out, dropping into the realm of subconscious wanderings that borders unawareness.

An odd, latent thought struck her. No other man had ever lifted her mother's ring from her possession.

That was probably significant, somehow. She'd figure it out later.

* * *

><p>AN: So, originally this scene was supposed to be a big fight and I was saving the fluff for later (for the sake of plot)...but jeez, I couldn't keep them apart, you know? I hope I haven't killed my momentum with having them kiss and make up a chapter or so too soon...but they still have alot to work through: the issue of her memory hasn't been dealt with (Castle knows she remembers - but not _how much_), so that is still smoldering, and there is the Friday night date, right? Plus the promised twisted ankle...

So I think I can still keep you all interested. Plus, this is FanFiction. Plot can be sacrificed on the altar of fluff, since that is what we are all here for anyway. I'll leave it to Marlowe to give us great stories with perfect twists. Lord knows he can hold out on the fluff!

Hope you liked it. I had a lot of fun writing it...until it started giving me trouble, and I started editing and doubting and wondering if I was getting them all out of character...then I thought 'my poor readers, it's Wednesday...post the damn thing.'

Also, not much of the next chapter is written, and I am traveling this weekend. Which means...you'll have to wait till sometime next week. Hopefully earlier than later. XcrossesfingersX


	5. Chapter 5

It was Friday. The sun had passed its zenith in a cloudless sky, and lunch hour had come and gone accompanied by a street vendor's hot dog and a second cup of coffee on their way to interview the Hammond cousin in SoHo. The hot dog had been her suggestion, not his, startling him into hasty agreement. Both of them missed the fine print. In his opinion, veggie dogs missed the delectable, decadent point of a hot dog; she had agreed and snagged a coffee to arrest the lingering taste.

Shortly after, his offended palate was forgotten as he watched her verbally and psychologically battle a spidery elder man lounging in a plush throne set across from their position on a voluptuous couch. She poked, prodded, and used what little she knew of the case and family history to dig pits and set traps as he dodged, diverted, and danced around her efforts. They left knowing little more than his alibi.

As they descended down the granite front steps, he heard her long inhale and glanced over to see her blow her cheeks out in release of tension.

"That was interesting." she remarked.

"That couch? I felt as if it was swallowing me up, reducing me to a forgotten peanut dropped behind the cushions."

"Everything about that room was a power play: the enveloping couch, his ornate chair, the extended space between us - that room wasn't set up for entertaining visitors. It's for intimidation." Beckett paused, waiting for the gates to open and grant them access to the street. "I get the feeling Irving guards the family secrets."

"Enough to kill?" Castle stood by the passenger side as she circled the hood.

She shrugged. "We'll check his alibi, put his name on the board." She reached for her door handle. "The more I get to know this family, the less I like."

Castle had pulled his phone out and was scrolling through his contacts.

She gazed at him quizzically over the top of the car, one hand resting on her open door. "What are you waiting for?"

"Oh, nothing. Just..." he frowned. The name he was looking for wasn't there.

"What?"

"Just realized I have something I need to take care of." He turned off the screen and pocketed the phone. "I'll meet you back at the precinct in a few hours."

"Okay..." she blinked, frowning at him, but didn't press. "Don't get into any trouble." Her face dropped below the roofline and a moment later her car purred away into the street.

Castle hailed a cab and directed the driver to a squat corner building that didn't quite match the surrounding architecture on the fringes of SoHo. The place had caught his eye on the way over and jogged his memory: a private art gallery he'd toured a few years back. It had given him an idea.

"Is Stefan here?" he queried the maid that answered his knock.

"Who is calling?" her Russian accent was thick, but understandable.

"Tell him Derek Storm has a question."

A moment later, a small mouse of a man with a thin goatee and small blue eyes trotted to the door.

"Derek Storm is dead." he said flatly as he beckoned Castle inside. "A poor decision lacking artistic meaning."

"He is just as much alive as he was when I created him," Castle defended. "And I believe the other critics felt otherwise: poetic tragedy, heartbreaking masterpiece...a sacrificial lamb - to quote a few."

"Rubbish. It was a poor decision. But not a terrible one. Forgivable." His eyes sparkled in the light of a tiered chandelier hanging low in a somber hall laden with several oil paintings, its stucco texture stretching into a room where a few statues could be glimpsed beyond the arching doorway. "Besides, I was kind in my review of _Heat_ _Rises_, was I not?"

"In your own way." Castle smiled urbanely. "It was the best review you've given me."

"Yes, well, the romantic tension saved you. Quite an ending, considering the circumstances."

Castle quirked his lips. "Yes. It wrote itself." He waved a dismissive hand. "But I'm actually here on unrelated personal matters, not fishing for reviews."

Stefan lifted a thin eyebrow. "Personal? Would you like to sit?"

"No, it's just a quick inquiry - do you still run private tours?"

"Yes, for small parties."

"I know this is short notice - please feel free to say no - but is tonight available?"

"It is; for how many?"

"For two. And when I toured a few years ago, I heard a friend mention wine tasting?"

"Occasionally, with adequate compensation, I will set out wines associated with the region in which the artwork originated."

"I will compensate, if it isn't too much to ask."

"Not at all. At what time are you expecting to arrive?"

Castle paused, debating. He was planning on a quick dinner near central park before taking her for a spin on the ice. "Is nine o'clock too late?"

"On Friday? Don't be absurd," he chuckled dryly. "Come into my wine room and choose your appetence."

* * *

><p>The art gallery had been a last minute decision; the wine even more impulsive. Perhaps it was too much; perhaps he shouldn't have secured his whim. He'd promised her light and fun; not heady and romantic. But over the years, he'd learned to trust his gut. She had a taste for good wine and fine art, and he could keep it fun.<p>

Castle shifted in the backseat of the cab as he rhythmically tapped his fingers across one knee, his thoughts turned inwards. If the fire of her lips didn't lick at his subconscious each time he caught her eye, Wednesday night could have been a figment of his imagination. He wasn't sure what to expect the morning after; but a complete return to normalcy didn't fit his presuppositions. She hadn't avoided him the past two days, but she wasn't cuing any green lights, either. When he had cautiously asked her this morning if they were still on for tonight, she'd given him a saucy smile and breathed in his face, asked him if he was getting scared he couldn't handle it.

He wasn't fooled. As much as he loved it when she let her inner minx loose on him, he was beginning to see it for what it really was. A protective mechanism to avoid vulnerability, a distraction from the insecurity she shrouded within her. So as she suggestively arched an eyebrow and turned back to the board, he knew. She was nervous. And overcompensating to hide it.

At least, he thought so.

The corners of his eyes tightened. She was so good at isolating her emotions. It was unsettling; it left him grasping for clues and searching for direction. Sighing, he pressed his fingers into his thigh to steady their twitching. She had been forced to develop that skill. It wasn't intentional. Perhaps she didn't know how to respond, and was resorting to a zone of comfortability for stability's sake. Fine. That was what tonight was about: restructuring her comfort zone, giving her stability in the idea of them.

He was an ace at this, a master of the first date. She'd love the ice skating, the art and the wine. He would intentionally downplay dinner - keep it cordial and not too romantic. Show her that they could be normal together, that it wasn't as scary as she feared. He would hypothesize about their cases over dinner and she'd laugh; he'd make an inappropriate remark about a statue and she'd correct his interpretation with a roll of her eyes.

He'd lead a dozen dates; charmed countless women. This was nothing new. He'd built a reputation around his charisma.

So why did he feel in over his head?

"Sir? Yo' fare?" The cabbie tapped the meter in emphasis.

"Yes, sorry-" Castle dug out his wallet and flicked a few bills. "-thank you. Keep the change."

He cleared his thoughts in the elevator on the way to his loft, resolved to stop thinking it over. Everything had been set in motion...he wasn't getting himself anywhere by over analyzing circumstances out of his control.

Besides, he had already decided he was going to steal her lips again - surprise her. His mouth curled in anticipation as his imagination plotted scenarios and envisaged her reactions.

Entering his bedroom, he changed into a comfortable pair of jeans, put on a warmer undershirt, and dug out a backpack from the closet. He tossed in a scarf, raided Alexis' room for an extra pair of gloves and a fashionable hat before stopping by the coat closet for his own accessories. He returned to his bedroom and eyed a set of folded clothes on the bed. She was going to kill him for this. He scooped them up and pressed them into the bag before sealing the zipper.

At the last minute, as he made his way towards the loft door, he diverted his steps towards the liquor cabinet.

Pouring himself a shot of whiskey, he raised his glass in a solitary toast to the future.

* * *

><p>Once again, Castle forced himself to still his drumming fingers, brought to his attention by Beckett's sharp glare as he drilled them against her desk. It was nearing six o'clock; Ryan and Esposito were setting their desks in order and shutting down their computers for the weekend, drawing on their jackets in preparation to leave. Beckett had yet to stop typing, several neat piles of papers still burdening her desk.<p>

"You've been here since - what - eight? Seven?" Castle ticked off his fingers. "That gives you ten or eleven hours of work. More than enough to call it a day."

Beckett stopped typing, made a few clicks with the mouse and glanced at her hand-written notes before her fingers pounded back across the keys.

"The details fade over the weekend. I'll call it a day when I finish the day's work." She drew out the last few words, distracted.

He grunted, impulsively reaching for her multicolored paperclips before linking them endlessly into a creation that began as a person and eventually morphed into a mutant octopus. It gave his fingers something to do, kept his mind off the fact he'd wanted to be at dinner at six; that he wanted her to all himself and not sharing her with her occupation. He linked the last paperclip and shook the creature halfheartedly to give it some life. It was unsatisfying. He spun it. The legs flew out in a semi-interesting way. Spun it the other way. Same thing. Losing interest, he stuffed it back into the magnet-rimmed box. The bullpen was now vacant; only they remained.

"Take it apart, Castle." Her eyes never left the screen, her fingers not missing a beat.

He grunted and yanked it back out. "When I'm done can we go? I'm hungry."

"When I'm done we can go. You'll live." She paused, squinting at the screen.

"I hate paperwork." Castle grumbled under his breath.

She gave an absent smile as she resumed typing, eyes still riveted on the screen. "And that is why you write books for a living?"

"That is totally different."

"Mhmm."

He finished disassembling the last of the paperclips and slid the box back into place. Folding his hands, he tried to keep from fidgeting. Normally he wouldn't mind an excuse to watch her work, but it was cutting into more interesting activities. Like their date. And making out.

"And...done." She punched the last key with a flourish for his benefit.

"Finally," he mumbled, reaching beneath his chair.

"Heard that."

He straightened and shoved his backpack onto her lap. "Go change."

Her hands steadied the bag, fingers at the zipper tag. "Is this safe to open?" she mumbled, even as she pulled the zipper and parted the canvas.

It took her a moment as she rifled through the layers. He watched her brow drop as her lashes suddenly rose in surprise, her eyes flicking towards him as she subconsciously clutched the bag possessively.

"When did you get these?"

It was so fun to push her buttons.

Her eyes tightened. "You did not." Widened. "You did! When I was sleeping!" Her lids dropped low, her mouth a line of feigned exasperation, glaring at him. "You went through my dresser, Castle. And my closet."

"Well, would you rather spend the evening in dress slacks and a tailored shirt?" He spread his hands innocently with a calculated expression of honesty across his face.

She glanced back into the bag, rummaged slightly. "At least you didn't pick out my underwear."

"I didn't find any suitable pieces."

She gaped, disbelief on her face. "The audacity!" she declared, rising and turning away.

No. Had he just - ?

Oh yes, he had. Insulted her underwear. He had meant for ice skating. He didn't find anything suitable for ice skating. Like athletic bras. Because her intimates were all too suitable for everything else.

She was already half way across the floor, heading for the stairs that led to the locker room. Already too far.

Why did he even admit to the underwear drawer?

He leaned forward with his hands to his face, elbows on his knees. And they hadn't even left the Precinct.

He jumped as her desk phone clattered to life with a trilling ring.

Briefly, he considered answering it before quickly deciding against it. She had left her desk, and was, therefore, no longer on-duty.

Beckett held to a different standard, and on the fourth ring the receiver was lifted from its cradle, her other hand still clutching the open backpack. His face must have betrayed him, because her features softened and she mouthed an apology as the receiver met her ear.

"Beckett."

Slumping into his chair, he baited his breath as he tried to ascertain the reason for the call and gauge how long it would take. And desperately hoping it wasn't what he suspected.

She reached for a pen, jotted an address.

No. Not tonight.

The receiver settled back into the cradle, the backpack onto her chair.

She looked at him a moment, pressed her lips together, seemed unable to say the words.

"We got a hit on the DiMassou sketch. A very credible one."

"Really." He intoned emotionlessly.

"Yeah." Her fingers skirted her forehead and tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear. "Apparently, a neighboring tenant just returned from out of town and picked up the week's papers, recognized the sketch in Tuesday's edition. He says it is without a doubt the guy next door. Says our perp is usually around this time of day, but he often leaves late at night. And the scar through his eyebrow is actually some kind of piercing."

He knew she was rambling to try and convince him, placate him. She swiped her cell off the desk and lifted her jacket off the back of the chair.

"We've got a takedown, Castle." She smiled at him, slid a few fingers across his shoulder as she walked by. "You get to wear your cool vest."

He wasn't amused. It was the first time she'd touched him since Wednesday night, and it was an apology. For canceling their date.

He could hear her heels clipping towards the elevator, her voice as she called up Esposito and Ryan. He would join her. He just needed a minute.

The distant ping of the elevator sounded from around the corner, followed by a faint shudder as the doors opened. Still he sat, slumped in his chair with his legs out and his shoulders slid low against the seatback. She said she was trying, she said she wanted this to work. The elevator shut. He needed to get up, needed to go, needed to follow her. But he was tired of following her. He wanted her to follow his lead for once. Just for once.

And suddenly, so much so that he caught his breath, he felt light fingertips melt onto his shoulders, their heat scrambling his senses. In his peripheral, he glimpsed a curtain of hair as she leaned over his shoulder to glimpse his face.

"Rain check, ok? I'm good for it."

Alright. She was trying.

* * *

><p>AN: I am so very sorry for the delay. I had some personal issues that took time to resolve. Thank you so much to all those who encouraged me to continue!

I know this was short: the next chapter will be up next week. Poor Castle.


	6. Chapter 6

Castle leaned against the rear panel of Beckett's sedan, watching her reach into the cavernous trunk. She'd left the parking lights on, her white shirt reflecting the scarlet hues that bled upwards to darken her tresses and wash over her face. The sky was a hazy black: thin wisps of clouds reflected the ambient glow of a city that never sleeps, and street lights revealed sharp contrasts of light and dark, glare and shadow. She straightened, his vest appearing in her hands, bumping against her thigh.

Her eyes flicked to his, black in the low light, and she quirked a corner of her mouth. "Here. Get dressed."

He twitched an eyebrow and retrieved his armor from her outstretched hand. "Undress me when we're done?"

She chortled in her throat and ducked back into the trunk before settling her Kevlar over her shoulders, hands tucking the wings and smoothing the Velcro in quick, practiced motions. Ryan and Esposito appeared, armored and in their shirtsleeves, sidearms glinting in the myriad of lights. Beckett unholstered her pistol and dropped the magazine, checking the number of rounds in the clip before sliding it back in with a metallic rasp.

Castle couldn't help but feel a thrill of adrenaline shiver across his skin. These careful precautions, the anticipation of a story approaching its climax, this breathless moment before the hammer falls and everything goes boom – all of it tantalized his mind. It was typically during this moment of preparation that he felt the most light-headed and jittery, knowing anything could happen in the next twenty minutes because the ending hadn't been written and the possibilities were endless.

Of course, nine times out of ten it was a walk in the park: either a routine arrest or a dead end. But sometimes the suspect would make a deal with the devil and all hell would break loose. He used to experience a primitive high during these few cases that defied the odds; used to love – maybe even secretly crave – the heart-stopping action that unfolded before him through the shouts of NYPD officers in a battle of wills enforced by threats encased in steel.

But then he'd found out that bullets don't always miss and blood smells like metal.

Now, the dread and the thrill and the fear all mash together in an incomprehensible mix of adrenaline, leaving him externally subdued and internally skittish.

He secured his vest firmly against his torso and twitched towards Beckett, noticing a tiny corner of her Velcro strap that wasn't quite flush, that could maybe possibly catch a sleeve and rip open. But she was already stepping away, leaving him to trail the three detectives across the narrow street that cut between two rows of dilapidated row houses subdivided into low-rent apartments. He followed wordlessly, listening to their calm voices commenting and directing and acknowledging.

"How does the mailman know whose eviction notice goes where if there are no house numbers?"

"Look harder, little man."

"Please, I've got it where it counts and a fiancée to prove it. Beckett, is it number two-oh-twelve?"

"Yeah Ryan, that's it."

"Oh-ho, you can't tie this stud down."

"You keep telling yourself that."

"These houses could use a little paint."

"More like a little of everything. These stairs are a joke."

"Door's stuck."

"Like your love life?"

"Yo, whose side are you on, bro?"

"Guys, is it locked?

"No, it's just-"

A shoulder rammed the flaking surface and the door jumped back off the jamb, swinging wildly inward.

"Who's the little man now, Espo?"

"Eat it."

"Looking for number three, boys."

Castle stepped in behind Beckett, toeing the door shut until it refused to close any further. Someone yanked a chain and a single bare light bulb illuminated the short passage, revealing two doors standing on opposing sides at the other end. The pale linoleum floor curled away from the stoop and walls, the glue disintegrating from too many cycles of hot and cold. A few cans loitered in the corners, contributing to the lingering smell of stale beer and old garbage. Immediately to his right, a narrow wooden staircase rose up to the second landing.

"Apartment three should be upstairs, if they follow any sort of conventional numbering system," Castle offered. Esposito and Ryan turned and glanced back at him, Beckett leading farther down the hall. At her nod the two brushed by him and stepped upwards. He instinctively turned to follow before realizing he was preceding Beckett – a breach of unspoken protocol. Pressing himself flat on the tiny landing at the base of the stairs, he gestured for her to step ahead. She stopped behind him, inclined her head.

"Go on," she voiced.

It was his turn to tilt his head, eye her suspiciously.

"Well, someone's gotta watch your back," she supplied.

He pressed a smile and began climbing. "This doesn't make up for canceling our date."

"Whoah–hey!" she hissed from behind him. "Not in public!"

"This is hardly-"

"Castle!" Her hand grabbed at his belt, pulled him to a full stop. "I would never, ever hear the end of it. Lock it up."

"Then you best let go of my pants."

Her hand immediately released and he swore he could see a flash of color drift across her cheeks. "Get up there," she muttered, pushing gently against his vest before adding a sarcastic "Writer."

He smirked and continued upwards, listening to her block heels sound out deep tones on the worn steps. At the top, he turned and spotted Ryan and Esposito approaching a door near the front wall of the building where a single street-lit window supplemented the weak lighting. Castle strode down and positioned himself against the window; out of the way with a clear view of the entire second landing. Esposito and Ryan stood at a right angle in front of him, facing the door.

"I've got point," Beckett clipped, clear and professional. She drew her gun with one hand, knocked sharply on the door with the other. Her fingers dropped to the handle before she stepped sideways and assumed the weaver stance. "Esposito."

Ryan and Esposito were in flanking positions on either side of her, and as Esposito lunged a hefty kick against the lock Beckett's muzzle held a steady line over his shoulder.

Esposito was winding up for a second kick when Castle caught a movement near the top of the stairs, and for a fleeting moment he locked eyes on a man's face. The man whirled, but not before Castle had registered a clear image of a piercing above his left eye.

"Behind you!" he shouted, already clawing his way past Esposito's shoulder as Ryan spun on his back foot and swept the landing with his gun, Beckett following suit. "Down the stairs – Beckett – eyebrows!"

Ryan figured it out and took off, Castle hard on his heels around the banister and down the staircase.

"Castle!" Beckett's voice behind him was sharp and commanding. "Castle, stay back here!"

Even as she spoke he heard her striking the steps in pursuit. But he was already taking them two at a time, trying to keep up with Ryan, and in a moment he was out the open door, down the landing, hitting the sidewalk.

Damn, Ryan was fast.

A few yards later, Esposito brushed past him in a dead sprint, jerking a thumb over his shoulder and shouting something that didn't quite translate through the wind rushing past Castle's ears and the pounding of their shoes on the pavement. Something about getting back – or getting Beckett? He wasn't sure.

The frigid air was biting at his eyes, causing moisture to spill out of the corners, his knees feeling unsteady at the pace he was keeping. Discerning he was a useless player at this point in the game, he slowed and glanced over his shoulder, realized Beckett wasn't following. Puzzled, he turned back at a jog. She had been in front of Esposito on the stairs - had she taken a different route? He couldn't think of any that made sense. Went for the cars? But as he approached, he could see both cars still parked, driverless.

Perhaps apartment three hadn't been empty and the suspect's accomplice had crept out, confronted Beckett, had her at gunpoint...

Even as he launched himself back up the rickety stoop he knew that didn't make sense, knew Esposito would never have left her by herself with a gunman.

But just in case, he poked his head inside the front door to put his imagination at ease. And nearly stumbled over the door jamb at the sight of Beckett crumpled at the base of the stairs, writhing in pain.

No. Please, not again.

He was at her side without knowing how he got there, ghosting his hands over her knees, her thighs, her sides.

"Where is it? Are you bleeding? God, Kate, what happened?" his voice sounded hollow in his head, disjointed, too high.

"Ankle." she forced between clenched teeth, arms braced out behind her.

"What?" he blinked in confusion.

She arched her back upwards with a shuddering breath and an inhaled moan. "Popped my ankle."

Oh. He flushed with relief, shuttered his eyes for a moment in silent thanks.

"Ok. Which one?"

"I'm sitting on it."

He realized that her left leg was twisted beneath her and she was holding her hips at an awkward angle, her arms bearing the weight of her upper body.

"I've gotcha." he said, reaching forward and wrapping her calf in his hands, unsure of how to proceed but knowing she couldn't stay in that position for much longer.

"No, Castle! Stop!" she yelled out, strangling a cry in her throat.

He had barely started tugging; her ankle hadn't even moved. Glancing at her rigid expression, he released the injured leg.

"I know Kate, but I've got to move it to get you up." He hurt for her. His heart was breaking at the tightness screwed into her face, at the short breaths as she battered down the pain.

She shut her eyes and rolled her head back, her arms beginning to tremble with pain and the fatigue of holding herself up off her injured limb. "Lift me off it." she breathed.

Castle assessed the best angle to use, then stood up and stepped behind her, wedging himself between her back and the wall. Squatting down, he secured his hands under her armpits.

"Alright. One, two, three..." he pulled her up towards his chest, moving himself forward as he tried to lift directly upwards and avoid unnecessary torque to her bad ankle.

Beckett ground her teeth and growled as he raised her from the floor, managing to get her good leg under herself for support. As soon as she was standing relatively straight, he shifted one arm down to wrap around her waist, drawing her hips tightly against his and securing her balance into his stance. He could feel the tension wracking her entire body, her core steeled against the pain. "There you go." he murmured into her hair. "Better?"

He felt her taking a shaky breath against his chest. "It's getting worse. Swelling. Gravity. Oh sh-aaah"

He smiled slightly. "Don't censor for my sake."

"I'm not. Pain is."

"Is anything else hurt?"

"No. Get me...t'throbbing is killing me." she was almost gasping.

"I had imagined those words under a different context..." Castle said as he shifted, moving one arm around her shoulders while bending down and gently swooping his other arm behind her knees.

"Castle! Damn it!" she cringed as her ankle bounced slightly into the new position, her arms flying around his neck and squeezing him in a strangle hold as if she was afraid he would drop her. "I wasn't ready for that!"

Her weight was more than he expected, and their respective vests pressed rigidly against each other, awkward and stiff. Small tremors vibrated through her shoulders as the pain roiled through her, causing her to involuntarily drop her head to the top of his shoulder and gasp for air.

"I'm sorry." He thought he might cry. "I'm just getting you to the car."

"I can walk."

"Like hell you can!"

"Just put me down."

"We can work this out later," he said, stepping down off the landing and maneuvering her sideways through the open doorway. As he started picking his way down the steps, unavoidably jostling her, she buried her face into his shoulder, blasting hot air through his shirt as she twisted his collar into a fist behind his neck.

It was too much for him.

"I'm sorry, beautiful," he murmured, breath feathering her temple. "I'm doing my best." Screw boundaries.

She stilled against him.

"Where did our rabbit go?" she mumbled after a moment, raising her head to look out into the street as they crossed the pavement.

As if in answer, her radio crackled on her belt, static and breathing and then Esposito's voice, announcing they were still in pursuit followed by their position and direction of travel.

"Ryan's probably about to take him down in some alley." Castle commented. "He's really fast."

"Or you're really slow."

"Nooo," Castle drawled, "I had to come back for you."

"Uh-huh."

He halted beside the car. "Think you can pop the handle?"

"What, the back door?"

"You can stretch your leg out, keep it elevated."

"The backseat of my own cruiser? I-"

"Don't even bring it up."

"What?"

"You're not driving."

She shut her mouth and gave him a hard look.

"Look, Kate, listen to the pain for once, alright? Jamming your ankle into a foot well is the absolute worst idea."

She huffed; made a face with her brow low and her cheeks tightened up in a pout.

Just adorable.

"So, can you reach the handle?"

"Yes," she grumbled, reaching down with one arm. "Just..a little lower...got it."

She half-stood and he half-lowered her onto the back seat; she scooted across until her back rested against the opposite door with her leg straightened across the bench. He looked around; found his jacket in the front seat. Rolling it into a ball, he tucked it beneath her injured foot to stabilize its position.

"Would it help if I took off your boot?"

"I don't know." One elbow was propped up on the narrow window ledge and she had turned her face into her hand, eyes closed, fighting the resurgent pain from her movements.

Castle placed a supporting hand on the outside of her boot and started to tug the inside zipper downwards.

Beckett's good leg jerked in reaction and she hissed a curse. "Don't touch it Castle! Just leave it."

"Ok then...we'll let the docs deal with that."

He crouched down onto his heels, a hand on the open door to maintain his balance; unsure of what to do next. As much as he wanted to get her to the ER, the boys were still pounding pavement after a known killer; and as much as she may want to throw her gumball on the roof and get into action, they both knew she had been rendered useless.

After a moment she shifted, bringing her hand down from her eyes to tug at the radio on her belt, finally yanking it free.

"Badges thirty-nine-nineteen-seven and thirty-eight-forty-two-five: report, over."

She again hung her elbow on the top edge of the door, pressing the radio to her temple with her eyes shut as she waited for a reply.

After seconds that seemed like hours, Ryan's voice carried through the static. "Thirty-eight-forty-two-five reporting to forty-one-thirty-one-nine...We're both in the alley between West one-two-four and one-two-five Street. Suspect fled into manhole, over."

"Did you apprehend the suspect, over."

There was a long silence.

"Negative. We attempted to follow but encountered hostile fire. Insufficient support to continue pursuit, over."

Castle watched tersely as Beckett thumped her head against the window, fingers clenching around the radio.

"Shit." she whispered. "Shit."

Castle stood up and placed his back against the car, rubbed a hand down his face. A sprained ankle would have been bad enough. But a sprained ankle and an escaped murderer?

Yeah, his night just got ugly.

* * *

><p>AN: So, I had this ready Thursday night, but I discovered the e-gremlins had temporarily seized our fortress. Got a few business trips ahead of me, so it will be at least another week before I post again. :( Sorry. But aren't you excited to see how Castle is gonna handle her? And how she is going to react? :D ...Fluff will triumph in its due time...


	7. Chapter 7

From her position behind the driver's seat, Beckett could see Castle's fingers sliding back and forth along the outside edge of the seat, his knees pressed awkwardly against the steering wheel. Withdrawing his arm, he glanced down to try and get a visual.

"It's under the seat." She offered from behind him.

"What?" He craned his neck to look at her from the corner of his vision.

"The lever; it's under the left side."

He bent forward and she heard a faint squeak before his seat jerked backwards. "Manual adjustment?" he mumbled, trying to secure a new position. "How archaic."

"Would you like your driving privileges revoked?"

"Hey, hey- " he adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see her face. "-I'm kidding, ok? As in 'ha ha, funny joke.'" His eyes were exaggerated in the reflection, comical.

"Mhmm." She lifted her brows. "Put the mirror in a legal position."

"It is!" He cranked the engine and leaned far to the left side of the steering wheel as he checked the mirror's image. "I can see out the back perfectly."

"Castle..."

His eyes pouted at her before they flickered and disappeared as he readjusted the mirror. Unfurling his seatbelt, he settled deeper into the cushion and took stock of the cockpit layout, an aurora of excitement surrounding him. She sighed and turned her eyes onto her throbbing ankle, gritting her teeth as she rested her head against the window and tried to accept her new position; tried to accept her failure to apprehend her suspect. It was difficult.

Glancing forward, she smacked his shoulder.

"Alright, alright!" he exclaimed, snapping his hand away from the array of buttons on the police scanner. "You're no fun."

"I've got two detectives waiting coatless for us to pick them up, remember?"

"I know, I know." He pulled into the street and headed towards one hundred and twenty-fifth street. "So…we should get there as soon as possible." His hand was roaming again, opening the center console and searching around the seat as he drove. "Where do you keep your gumball?"

"Don't you wish you knew."

"It's in the glove compartment, isn't it."

She smirked as her gaze dropped beneath his seat, catching the yellow glint of reflective Plexiglas hidden in shadow. "Maybe."

"It's in front of me every day, and I never knew..."

"You poor, ignorant soul."

"There's always next time."

"You mean when you are left standing on the curb?"

"You wouldn't."

"Try it sometime. I think I would find it amusing."

"Ouch. Cold, detective."

"So turn on the heat." she responded sarcastically.

He chuckled, gripping the rearview mirror as if to turn it towards her again but instead making a small excuse of an adjustment. "Just say the word and I'll give you all the heat you need."

She snorted and rolled her eyes, not in the mood for his innuendos. She had been frustrated with his behavior since their kiss-and-make-up session Wednesday night: he'd been too cautious, almost afraid to make another move in light of her regained composure. It irked her.

"Hey," his voice was softer. "I'm just messing with you."

He better not be.

"Well, I was serious about the heater." She was in her shirtsleeves and the air near the window was frigid, causing her hair to prickle across her exposed skin.

"Um, the engine's still cold."

She grunted in reply, crossing her arms against the chill.

A moment later, Castle threw the car into park as Ryan opened the passenger door and looked quizzically at him, his mouth opening in question until he noticed Beckett sprawled across the back seat.

"Beckett? What happened?"

"Jacked up my ankle."

There was a slight pause as Ryan waited for an explanation. She didn't give one.

"Oh." He finally responded. "That sucks." Standing up, he spoke a few words to Esposito before dropping into the front seat, drawing the door behind him.

The car limited her field of vision, but she could see Esposito's utility belt move towards the back door opposite of her, fingers twitching towards the handle. Hesitating, he turned and rounded the trunk to the other side, rapping his knuckles on the driver's window.

"Back seat, Castle." He said, thumb jerking in indication.

Castle opened the door and vacated the seat, grumbling. "C'mon, I drove over here."

"Yep. Doesn't make it legal."

"As if that matters to you. Just admit you'd rather it be my knees in Ryan's back and not yours."

"That's a moot point." Esposito returned over the roof before he landed behind the wheel.

Beckett felt a twang at his words, decided to set him straight later. He didn't want to share a seat with her after letting their suspect escape, but the blame wasn't upon his shoulders. It had been her lack of foresight.

Castle popped open the door opposite her and peered in. She tensed her leg and started to move her foot off his seat, but the effort elicited an involuntary grimace and Castle's hand pressed down against her knee, stilling her.

"Let me."

His hands wrapped under the coat, drawing the folds around the joint for stability as he lifted, carefully slipping into his seat before resettling her calf in his lap. He held her there, his left elbow just below the outside of her knee and his fingers resting lightly against her lower calf, cradling her injury against himself. Her right leg was drawn up, her knee grazing his shoulder and the tip of her shoe nearly touching his jeans. It felt good and stifling all in the same moment; his protection equally reassuring and overbearing.

He'd kissed her, didn't touch her for two days, and then he'd called her beautiful. She didn't know what to think.

Turning her chin into her palm, fingers curled at her lips, she watched the road over Esposito's shoulder.

It was a short ride back to the boys' car, and after an argument where Castle insisted, Beckett refused, and the boys sat silent, it was decided Esposito would continue driving the crown vic. Ryan jumped out to repossess his car, looking relieved. Esposito remained silent and made double time back to the precinct, pulling into her designated parking place and handing back the keys over his shoulder.

She wasn't sure if he felt guilty about the suspect, or if the silence between her and Castle was that ominous. Either way, he was gone with a "see you Monday" by the time Castle had barely placed a foot out the back door.

Castle re-settled her ankle onto the seat, finally catching her eye as he extended a hand towards her.

"Keys?"

"What? No. Car stays here. I can't check it out over the weekend when I'm not on duty."

"That's annoying." He retracted his hand and dug into his jeans. "I'll call up my car service."

"No, Castle, I'll just take a cab." Home sounded fantastic right now, and her stomach was reminding her she still hadn't eaten. She could order in; keep herself from having to cook on crutches. Briefly, she wondered to which restaurant Castle had planned on treating her.

"The drivers are so much better, and the ride is far more comfortable - trust me." He was already flicking his thumb across the screen.

"Castle, this isn't that big a deal. It's just a sprained ankle. I'll be fine in a few days."

He made a grunting noise and looked at her reprovingly as he raised the phone to his ear. "No you won't; not with this much pain."

"I'm not in that much pain; I'm fine."

"Yes you are; you know how I know? Because you showed it, and that means it's ten times worse than you're letting on."

"Oh please Castle, ten times is a gross exaggeration." But she was talking to his back; he had taken a few steps away to speak with the service agent. She felt slighted. Ignored. And totally dependent on his assistance to get out of her own car.

He returned shortly, slipping his phone into his pocket. "Do you want to climb out this side or your side?"

"Towards you."

His hands reached down and enveloped her ankle in a surprisingly secure embrace, fingers splaying wide and distributing the pressure across her calf and foot as she scooted across the seat until she was sitting on the very edge while he crouched in front of her and carefully lowered her heel onto the polished concrete.

She hissed as his hands loosened and the pressure all changed, as gravity transformed her fluids into heavy, hot lead and white lines streaked up her calf. She tried to fight it, laid her head against the door frame and clenched her jaw, tried not to show it to him - but he heard the sound in her throat and an instant later his broad hands were wrapping her up again, lifting her ankle slightly as he dropped a knee to give himself stability.

"Should've let you get used to the gravity first, sorry."

"No, it's ok - I just gotta get used to the pressure." She thought the words sounded pretty nonchalant through her teeth. At least she hoped so.

He nodded. "Just tell me when."

A thought struck her. "They can't pick us up in here. Police access only."

"I told them to meet us out front."

"Oh. Good." She suddenly felt a surge of rebellion. "Let go; I'm standing up."

He looked up in surprise but didn't fight her as she lifted her foot from his grasp and shoved against her arms to propel herself upwards, ending with a hand on the doorframe for stability and her knee cocked to keep her bad ankle hovering above the ground. The action didn't hurt as bad as she had feared.

"You okay?" He was shifting hesitantly in front of her, hands twitching towards her.

"Yes, see? I'm capable of standing on my own." She used one hand to start peeling away the Velcro strips of her vest; realized about halfway through that she should have done this sitting down, not balancing on one leg as her ankle doubled in size every ten seconds.

He looked nervous.

"You're still wearing yours too, you know." she said, trying to redirect his attention.

"You're not going to fall, are you?"

"Castle!"

"Right." He snapped out of it and swiftly stripped himself of his vest, laying it on the trunk.

She had the Velcro undone, but hadn't figured out how to get it over her head while maintaining her balance.

She sat down.

Guiding her bad leg over her opposite knee, she managed to sit cross-legged with minimal pain. Movements were at least feasible now: it just throbbed like hell. She finished removing the Kevlar and handed it off to Castle along with the keys, the warm air previously trapped beneath her vest vanishing as the chilled garage seeped into her skin. She was shivering slightly by the time Castle returned from the trunk, coats in hand.

"Thanks," she offered genuinely, shrugging awkwardly into her overcoat and buttoning down the breast.

"So, how do you want to do this?" Castle had stepped back and crossed his arms as he assessed her situation.

"Well, I figured I would just hobble out front."

He twisted his brows in skepticism, pursed his lips.

"With your help, of course." She looked him in slight exasperation. "I'll need your shoulder."

Still he looked at her, didn't move closer. "That's a lot of bouncing and jarring; just think about it for a moment."

She did. She wasn't particularly looking forward to it. But how else -

Oh.

"You are not carrying me." She stood up again, annoyed and patronized and growing tired of the pain that was getting worse no matter what position she was in.

His hands moved to rest lightly against her upper arms before sliding down to gently grip the inside of her elbows, as if to stop her from doing something rash. She startled, surprised at his boldness. And then she felt a new frustration - that he was only bold in her weakness; that he didn't give her a hug Thursday after her therapist's; that he didn't try and sneak a caress in the break room, lay a claim to their pseudo-relationship.

"No, Castle-" her eyes steeled against his, "-stop looking at me like that. You're not."

"No, no, that's fine - I'm talking old school; piggy-back, you know? All you gotta do is hang on." He was shrugging and nodding and his thumbs were rubbing little circles on the sleeves of her jacket.

Ok, maybe. She could do that. As if she could really say no to him when his eyes looked at her like _that_ - all wide and innocent and earnest and so, so blue.

She shrugged. "Hmm. Maybe. That could work."

He smiled, and she thought he was going to suddenly kiss her. But he merely stepped back and turned around.

She stifled a laugh. "That's not going to work, Castle. I can't jump." And then she laughed anyway because he looked so comical parked like a pony in front of her, hands on his knees. "You look like you're constipated."

He straightened up and spun around, trying to look hurt but grinning instead. "My, Beckett - I never thought of you as the type to need assistance in mounting me."

She felt the heat strike her cheeks; she hadn't been angling for that and he knew it. She narrowed her eyes, then twitched the corners of her mouth upwards - just barely - enough to exude a sultry air. One finger found the front pocket of his jeans; a light tug was all it took for her to bring him close; close enough to lean forward and hook an arm over his shoulder, hover her lips near his ear.

"You sure you want to start this with me, Castle? 'Cause I'm gonna be riding your backside in a moment."

He was very still against her. "Nope. Not sure about much right now."

She grinned in victory, and he shifted his weight to lean back and look at her face. She forgot; tried follow him and straighten herself off the car; dropped some weight onto her left foot.

It was fine; he grabbed her elbows and she caught the lapels of his jacket. Dropping her face against his shoulder, she bit a groan into the rough wool.

"What'd you do?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"Right."

"I just forgot, for a moment."

"You forgot."

"Yeah. This big fat guy distracted me."

"That's an interesting version."

"And he was old, too."

"Hey! This old fat guy is about to carry your smart ass out the door."

She smiled into his coat as she got a handle on the pain. "Aren't you writers supposed to show, not tell?"

"When did you become so impertinent?"

"You are the company you keep, Castle. Now help me onto the trunk and get me outta here." She needed to elevate her ankle again - her little shenanigan had it pulsing and throbbing so intensely it felt as if it was about to split her boot.

She shifted over to the trunk, scooting onto the flat plane as he helped lift her upwards. His hands were stronger than she'd realized; she could feel their grip through the coat against her obliques. He turned again, bent down slightly, and she half-fell, half-climbed onto his back as his hands wrapped around her thighs and hauled her into position.

"You okay?"

She had briefly set her chin between her arm and his ear, closing her eyes against the hot sparks in her ankle. "Yeah, I'm good. Let's go."

He strolled over to the elevator; the doors opened immediately at the touch of the button. Stepping inside, he turned around slowly to give her dangling ankle plenty of clearance in the small box.

He pressed ground floor, and her eyes drifted upwards to the familiar number labeled 'Homicide'.

"Castle - dang it - I need to grab an incident report form."

"Oh no. No way. You're done with work."

"No, I'm serious - I need to fill it out while I still remember the details."

"Are you kidding me? Paperwork, now? Not happening."

"Castle! Press Homicide."

He just shook his head and stepped off as the doors opened. Onto the ground floor.

She felt a resurgence of the annoyance and anger at his flippant disregard of her request; an abuse of his power since he held all the cards. A few childish urges flashed through her mind: bite his ear, pull his hair - do something to redirect his steps.

But in the end she just felt tired and frustrated and her ankle hurt. A lot. She was slipping lower on his back; she laid her head down and rested her cheek on his shoulder, resigning herself with a small sigh. Perhaps she could type it up on her computer tomorrow. She remembered most of the important sections on the form anyway.

He stopped in the empty hall, still a good distance from the front doors. She frowned, lifted her head.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He was quiet a moment. "You really want those forms?"

"Mmm - I'll be alright. It's just..." she faltered, unsure of how to phrase his patronizing behavior without starting an argument.

"Just...?"

She lost her nerve, set her chin on the crest of his trapezius. "This is just really annoying."

He started forward again, and there was something about his stride, about the set of his jaw and the way he carried his head that was off. Stiffer. Offended.

"Maybe frustrating is a better word," she said, feeling the need to clarify. "This is all really frustrating. My ankle, our suspect, Esposito thinking I blame him...just, all of it."

"And maybe our date?" Castle grunted so low she had to strain to hear him.

Oops. She should have mentioned that. "Well, of course! That goes without saying," she flubbed, trying to recover. "But, I don't know Castle - look on the bright side. If things had gone as planned, I wouldn't be straddling you right now."

"Mmm – you don't know that. I'm pretty irresistible."

Her arms were wrapped around his neck; she tightened a wrist into his Adam's apple. "That better not have been a part of your plan. I'm insulted you would even think I'm that easy."

"Oh I'm all too aware of that."

She inwardly winced at the faint trace of bitterness in his tone; wasn't sure what to do about it.

"Castle, look, it's not like I planned on this happening. I got the call; I had to go." She blew a huff through her nose. "Believe me, I'd much rather be eating sushi with you than dealing with this mess."

She felt his answering sigh as his shoulder blades rose against her chest.

"We weren't going for sushi," he said, and her back pressed against the precinct door as he used her body to push it open in lieu of his hands, which were gripping her thighs to keep her from sliding too low.

She couldn't see either of her feet; her knees blocked the line of vision, forcing her to rely solely on his spatial judgment to avoid obstacles. So when the front lip of her left boot barely caught the edge of the opposing door as he rolled through the doorway, she mostly blamed him.

"Castle! Mmph!" She buried her outcry in the wool of his pea coat; eyes squeezed shut and teeth scraping against the coarse fibers as white explosions shredded her ankle and laced up her calf. It had happened so fast; just a tiny flick that had only torqued her ankle an inch, if that, but she had a strangle hold on him all the same, gripping his body as if she could bring her fists to her face straight through his chest.

Eventually, she noticed his words, felt his thumbs frantically smoothing beneath her thighs.

"Kate, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Kate, shh..." His face was turned towards her; she could feel his breath against her temple. "Just hang on, ok? The car's here, you can get it up, ease the pressure...Kate c'mon, look at me, please?"

With great effort, she relaxed enough to turn her face towards him, loosed her fists to give him some breathing room across his chest. She was going to blurt out some jab at his inane blundering, let him know he'd screwed up, but as she opened her eyes the words stuck in her throat. She'd only seen that look once before, when he had held her in a graveyard. Pain and love all rolled into one heartbreaking expression.

"Mm good, Castle," she breathed, eyes locked on his, ear pressed to the top of his shoulder, still struggling against the waves of pain. "Let's just get in without a repeat experience."

He was painstakingly cautious as he eased her off his back and settled her into the car; his hands never left her person as they supported, guided, and coddled her until he was sitting with her injured limb across his lap, cradling it against his hips.

She didn't know if she should reprimand him for his extensive handling, or thank him for his meticulous attentions; so she did neither, glancing forward to peruse the well-dressed driver, realizing she needed give him her address.

"Bellevue Hospital, please."

"What?" she sputtered, head jerking to spear an incredulous gaze in Castle's direction. "No!" She turned back towards the driver. "Sir, just take us to-"

"Kate." His voice was deep, sure, patient.

She snapped her eyes to his, smoldering. "Castle. I'm going home. I do not need to go to the hospital."

"Look at yourself, will you?" He indicated her position across the seat. "Yes, you do!"

"No, I don't. I am going home, and I am ordering takeout, and I am icing my ankle."

"Kate, you can't even hobble, let alone walk."

She pressed her lips into a line, couldn't believe he was forcing this on her. "It's called crutches. I already own them." She tilted her head. "As well as the ACE bandages, the ice packs, and whatever else the hospital is going to give me for treatment."

"And the X-Ray machine, the MRI, and the prescription painkillers?"

She lowered her lids, glared at him. "It's not broken."

"And you know this how?"

"It doesn't feel broken."

"Have you broken an ankle before?"

"No..." she begrudged, switched tactics. "Look, if it isn't any better tomorrow, I'll go to my doctor."

"Tomorrow is Saturday."

"Whatever. I'll go Monday."

"Sorry girl, I'm being the logical one for once." He reached forward and indicated to the confused driver to proceed according to his directions. The car pulled smoothly into the street.

She parted her lips, tightened her eyes, paused on a breath. He did not.

"Did you just call me girl?"

His face stumbled, recovered. "I didn't mean it. It was just reflex - Alexis, you know?"

She just looked at him, letting the anger and frustration sculpt her visage.

"Kate, don't fight me on this." There was a quiet tiredness to his voice, an apology.

She slid her eyes away, turned frontward, watched the endless brake lights beneath traffic signals floating in the darkness. She wanted to go home. She wanted to eat, curl up on the couch with a book, forget that her suspect was on the lam and her ankle was mush. She wanted him to stop being her father and start being her partner. Or her lover.

She thumped her head against the window, released a tense sigh.

"I can't believe this happened."

"I know; I'm sorry."

She looked at him, realized he hadn't eaten either; realized he hadn't left her side. "Stop saying that. It wasn't your fault."

He shrugged. "I don't like seeing you hurt."

"It's just a sprained ankle, Castle."

"And I'm just making sure it's not anything worse."

She drew a measured breath, turned towards the front again; braced an elbow on the passenger seat and dragged her fingers through her hair, pressing them against her scalp as she buried them in her locks.

The silence stretched. He was watching her.

"It's just...I hate hospitals."

His eyes dropped to the floor. "Yeah. I know."

* * *

><p>AN: Mmm Hmmm. What do you think? I'm sensing all this underlying tension may come to a head...any idea how? :)


	8. Chapter 8

The paperwork was mostly routine, except for where she checked 'yes' to 'major surgeries' and scrawled _gunshot to the lower sternum, reconstructive heart surgery_ on the short line following the box. One trivial sentence. Three months of crippling agony.

And now that she was back, she realized the scars weren't fully healed.

It was well over an hour later when they called her into X-ray, stripped her of her boot, and slapped on a lead apron before angling her ankle across metallic plates. By the time she was wheeled into a small holding room with a narrow bed and an assortment of generic instruments, she felt worn-out and brittle.

And wondered where the hell Castle had gone.

She'd left him in this room ten minutes ago; counted on him being here when she returned. If he had dragged her in here, he wasn't allowed to leave her alone. Because as much as she was afraid to admit it, she needed his buoyant presence to buffer the sterile isolation; preferred to be draped across his back than slumped awkwardly in a wheelchair.

The aide offered her a hand as she shifted from the chair to the bed; she ignored it and climbed up on her own. The door shut and she wrapped her arms around herself, tried to hold it all together, stop the emotional spiral as images leaked from her subconscious, the remembered pain and loneliness and helplessness of it all. She considered adding another month of therapy; decided she wasn't as far along as she thought.

She hated this place, these walls, the sterility and the waiting, waiting, waiting. With each minute she felt an increasing void; more alone and more desperate for his teasing. The closed door sported a graphic poster educating her on the clinical stages of HIV - she had read it three times in an attempt to distract herself when there was a light rap and the door cracked open, revealing Castle's head and shoulders beyond its edge.

Whatever he had been about to say died behind his lips as his eyes found hers, a brief shadow crossing his brow before he relaxed and redirected his tongue into a gentle greeting, eyes shifting into soft lines of comfort.

She quickly reconstructed her features into a more indifferent expression; uncrossed her arms and leaned back against her palms. Apparently, she'd been wearing her thoughts on her face; apparently, he'd seen far deeper than he'd expected.

"Hey," she answered, still gathering herself, "Where you been?"

"Just investigating the inventory." He stepped inside and clicked the door behind him, dropped his gaze to her exposed ankle. "Nyeh," he winced, "I think you could play slow-pitch softball with that."

She pressed her lips into a smile. He was back. "I always did prefer baseball with the guys."

"I'll bet you did," he chuckled, stepping over to the head of the bed and angling the room's single chair towards her before settling into it and dropping the backpack between his feet. "How'd it go?"

"I don't know; still waiting on the doc."

"Pain?"

"Minimal."

He grunted, leaned back, cast his eyes around the room as he tapped his fingers across his knees; shifted forward and laid his chin on both fists.

"Alright," Beckett intoned suspiciously, looking at him sideways over one shoulder. "What'd you do."

"Hmm?" He rolled his eyes to hers, overly innocent.

"Spill it, Castle. Where'd you go." She tightened her eyes. "What did you..._take_?"

He lifted his chin and relaxed his jaw, regarded her with slight awe. "You really are New York's finest."

She glared at his deflection, raised her brow expectantly.

He glanced at his watch, made a face. "How much time do you think we have?"

"I think it took me nearly two hours to get in here and I have the least life-threatening injury in the ER."

"Well, not the _least_-"

"Hey. Gimme answers." She hadn't meant to sound so playful.

"So. I thought - well, you mentioned - I mean, I am too, so I was looking anyway-" he stopped at her expression, held up his pointer fingers. "I'll just show you."

She watched curiously as he reached down to the backpack; tried to figure out what he was hesitant to explain. Castle unzipped it but didn't part the fabric, twisted his head to look up at her as he grasped the bag.

"You've got a few choices for the main course, but dessert is single option only." His hands reached in, pulled out two small styrofoam boxes and seesawed them in the air. "Dry chicken wings or over-cooked egg rolls?"

She shifted her weight off her hands, twisted to face him more fully as she let out a wordless breath. How-?

Because it was him, and he always found a way. She let out a soft laugh, shook her head, felt the tense knot in her chest untangling and dissolving. And in that moment, she thought about how her summer could have gone; caught of glimpse of what her lie had stolen from them both. How these walls could have represented something other than deep frustration and helpless pain.

"Do I even want to know where you found this?" she murmured, turning sideways and dropping to support herself on one elbow so she could both face him and match his eye level.

"Cafeteria, and that's definitely all you want to know."

"Dessert too, huh?" She probed, curious.

"The Jell-O and pudding weren't really transportable, so..." He set the boxes on the edge of her bed, returned to the backpack and fished through the clothes for a moment before drawing out two Snickers bars; held them up like a cheesy infomercial. "Hungry?"

She pulled in her bottom lip, felt a sudden burst of affection melt her core.

He was a good, good man.

"Can I start with dessert?" She stared at him beneath her lashes, feeling young and doted upon. His eyes smiled back at her, too happy - too excited about pleasing her. She realized he had been hesitant because of her; realized he hadn't been sure how she would take it, if she would approve of his assumptive provision for her needs. Because – well...she knew she had been difficult tonight.

She should fix that.

He stripped down the plastic, handed it over. She let her fingers brush across his, stroke his palm as he dropped it into hers. Grasping the top, she broke the chocolate covering and pulled a piece away until the soft caramel strung out and sagged apart beneath its own weight. She briefly flicked her eyes back to his hands and saw he was preoccupied, tinkering with the plastic enveloping his bar.

This was all so new, this thing of theirs; so few days and no words. She wasn't sure if she should, wasn't sure if she was ready to reciprocate so loudly-

"Castle." Her voice was soft in her own ears, almost timid. Even as she spoke she was moving her fingers forward, advancing the chocolate towards him. He brought his attention on her-

And she slipped it between his lips, thumb bumping his tooth as her fingers curled beneath his chin.

He didn't chew, didn't breathe. Just held it in his mouth, staring at her. She smiled, pulse drowning her eardrums, stomach somersaulting; her fingers still grazing the crest of his jaw as her thumb gently swiped at a melting crumb of chocolate resting on his lower lip.

"To the victor goes the spoils," she said quietly, slowly withdrawing her hand.

He closed his lips, blinked, tried an experimental chew; his eyes bright and soft in all the right ways that turned her inside out.

"Thank you," she continued, "for being here."

He was chewing faster now, a jocular grin spreading across his features. "Sure, Kate. What kind of date would it be if a guy didn't buy a girl dinner?" He leaned forward, reached for the little boxes.

The endorphins were running high; liquid and warm in her chest as they bubbled up into a laugh - the thought of them on a date in the hospital, like this.

"Some date!" she laughed, unable to hold back the wide smile that spilled across her face.

And suddenly she squeaked as his lips pressed into her smile, unexpected and warm, rich from the undertones of chocolate.

"I love it when you laugh." His smile was against hers, breath thick and sweet.

She exhaled in surprise, blushed and pulled her lips in as she dropped her face away, hiding behind her lashes as she tried to steady her breathing and reset her heartbeat. He hadn't said it, not really, but-

He was barely restrained, like a wild animal, just waiting for her cue. But running wasn't an option. Not this time.

He shifted his weight back into his chair; legs wide and confident, shoulders square as he tore into his bar. She caught his eye and gave him a small smile, rolled slightly away so she could rest in a more comfortable position without all her weight on one elbow.

She just needed to tread softly, be careful. It had been like this before, at the beginning, with Will and Royce and even Josh, at one point. She'd learned not to trust her feelings; not to impulsively follow the heat in her veins. Not if she wanted more.

More? How much more?

Little goosebumps were dancing across her arms, she felt her brain starting to run away with her, flash images she wasn't - shouldn't - be contriving. She drew a deep breath, willed herself back under control, promised herself she would think about it tonight, later - when she was finally back at her apartment, when she had some space - she would think about it. About how much more she wanted. If she was ready. If her desire outweighed the risk of shattering her heart again. If she could trust him.

Another rap on the door; it was the doctor, clipboard in hand and a large manila folder tucked beneath his arm.

Castle stuffed the last of his bar into his mouth; hers was still clutched in her fist, mostly forgotten.

"Hello hello, Ms. Beckett." The doc was an older man in slacks and a white lab coat, his hair a strawberry grey. "I'm Doctor Marsh." He set the clipboard on the small desk before he turned to face her, smile lines crinkling in the corners of his eyes.

Castle started to stand and give up his chair, but the doc waved him down with a staying hand and reached beneath the desk, dragging out a rolling stool.

"How did this happen?" He asked, sitting down at the foot of her bed.

"I was running." Beckett answered, pushing herself into a vertical position.

Dr. Marsh glanced at her.

"Down some stairs." She felt judged as she said it; saw his eyes sweep across her discarded stacked-heel boot. "I'm a cop. I was chasing a suspect."

"I see. Which way did it turn?"

"Mmm...in - this way." She curled her left wrist inwards to clarify her meaning.

"Can you press against my fingers?"

She managed to swallow a grimace as she forced the ball of her foot to shift forward into his touch, far too weak, then towards the inside. When his fingers shifted to the outside of her foot she merely shook her head, couldn't even attempt it.

"You have a stellar injury," the doctor commented, drawing the envelope from his side and removing its contents. He turned to a board with a white backlight, secured the x-ray film against it. "There is a lot of swelling, so we can't determine the extent of tendon and ligament damage...but the good news is I don't see any obvious fractures."

"Ok..." Beckett said, caution lacing her tone.

"The bad news is you really messed up your joint. Based off your range of motion and strength, I'd say this is a grade three sprain, meaning you've torn some ligaments and seriously destabilized your joint." He took a breath, flipped out a hand. "Now, without an MRI, I can't tell you exactly what's torn and what's not, but I would say you've done some hefty damage to your ATFL and maybe even your CFL, the ligaments stabilizing the outside of your ankle."

"So, can we order an MRI?" Castle inquired.

Beckett's strength dropped at the thought of another test, another several hours-

"Unfortunately, not yet. You'll have to wait for the swelling to go down before we can get an accurate image."

She breathed a sigh, looked at Castle. His brows were knit, concentrating, taking it all so seriously.

"Do you have a regular doctor?"

"Yes." Did she ever. And a physical therapist, and a shrink; a whole team keeping her together.

"Schedule an MRI on Monday, after the swelling goes down. I'm a little worried about this..."

He reached over her ballooned joint and squeezed low on her calf, several inches above the ankle. She winced, twitching slightly at the sudden burst of pain.

"There is a lot of swelling higher than normal. And pain in that area can indicate a syndesmotic injury, or high ankle sprain, which can be pretty serious." He looked back at her, pensive. "I'm tempted to assume the worst and put you in a cast for the weekend."

"You really think it's that bad?" She felt a knot growing in her stomach, distaste in her mouth at the thought of suffering through a cast.

"I'm just being cautious. A syndesmotic injury is rare with internal rotation, so I'm not saying it _is_, I'm just surmising based off the clinical presentation of your ankle..." he trailed off, tapped a pen on his knee. "The idea is to minimize the chance of injuring it worse. It would take less than you think, considering the level of instability."

Castle cleared his throat. "Doc, if she's careful - stays off her feet all weekend - would a cast still be necessary?"

Dr. Marsh pursed his lips, looked at the film. "There are other ways to stabilize it. We could send you home with an air splint; it's not as inconvenient, but gives decent protection."

"Great." Beckett offered, eager to support the latter option.

"Just be cautious," Dr. Marsh continued, retrieving his clip board, "absolutely no weight-bearing for the next several weeks - we'll get you a pair of crutches." He stood, glanced down at her and peered beneath his brows. "May I make a suggestion?"

"Yes?" Beckett replied.

"I don't know if those heels are standard issue these days, but I would suggest some sort of athletic shoe for any future pursuits."

She felt a twinge of offense, wanted to tell him the dozens of times she had done it successfully - but she knew he was right. Statistically, it was inevitable. It had just been a long time in coming. "Right. Thanks."

"And," He leveled his pen at her with a stern fatherly glare. "Rest is the best healer. Keep it elevated as much as possible."

She nodded, compliant.

"Do you have any questions?"

Castle opened his mouth-

But she was already speaking. "No. But thanks Dr. Marsh. I really appreciate it."

"My pleasure. The nurse will leave you with further instructions."

The door clicked behind him.

She turned to Castle, smirking. "I don't think I need to tell you I told you so."

"What?" He thickened his neck, squared his shoulders in defense.

"I now know I have a sprained ankle," she said flatly, looking at him condescendingly. "And that I need to go to the doc Monday - which I already told you I was going to do - and now I'm going to own two sets of crutches and a drawer full of ACE bandages."

Castle started to say something, stopped and got curious. "A drawer full?"

"Yeah. Maybe I'll wear a new one every day." she quipped, bringing her neglected Snickers to her lips.

"This happens that often?"

"No...happened a few times as a street cop, basic training...they used them to wrap my ribs and hold the bandages in place."

"Oh." He paused, changed direction. "But now we know it isn't broken, and you get that air splint thing."

She hummed derisively around a bite. "That's a precaution for people who can't follow directions; do stupid stuff."

Castle cocked his head so he was looking at her from the corners of his eyes. "And...my point exactly."

She sidled him a glare, tossed the wrapper in his face. "Are you insinuating I can't-"

The door popped open, cutting her off. A terribly young girl in teddy-bear scrubs shuffled in, laden with a pair of crutches, a handful of papers, and a few plastic pieces with a roll of cloth tucked against her side.

"Here are your care instructions; read them over and ask if you need anything explained." The nurse handed her the papers; set the crutches against the wall. "I'll wrap you up and we'll get you out of here."

Beckett glanced at the papers, saw the standard "Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation" headings and set them down beside her. Nothing she didn't already know.

Castle made a soft noise, slipped them from her fingers on the bed. She glanced at him, felt his air of over-protectiveness as he flipped through them, catching each detail.

The nurse touched her calf. "Scoot down for me, hang your foot off the end of the bed."

Bringing her attention around, Beckett complied; watched the nurse wrap her foot from toe to calf, undoing and redoing sections until she was satisfied. The compression felt good; more secure. The girl slipped the plastic air splint over the ACE bandage and secured the straps.

"How's it feel - too tight?"

It was perhaps a little snugger than she would have done herself, but she was eager to be home. "No, it's good, thanks."

Beckett swung her feet off the bed, took the crutches from the nurse. As the girl sized her up and adjusted the crutches, Castle badgered the nurse with questions about minute details concerning icing and heating, anti-inflammatory drugs, and even sleeping positions.

At last, she was swinging behind him in her sock feet, concentrating on the rhythm of her stride as he led the way down the corridor and out the ER doors. She felt ridiculous, yet strangely empowered now that she could travel on her own will.

For short distances, anyway.

Already, she could feel her scars pulling; already her abdominals were working harder than they should be, her chest tightening into knots with the exertion of lifting her entire body weight into the crutches.

So much for physical therapy.

By the time she stood on the curb, letting Castle help her shrug into her pea coat before crawling into his waiting car, she was struggling not to pant, feeling the burn in her chest. It was fine. She was going home, eating something, and going to bed. After tonight's events, her apartment beckoned her as a safe house in a storm: she couldn't wait for the quiet and solitude to process it all, take a step back and view the events from a distance, find a sure way to proceed. She would ponder her escaped suspect, what she should've done differently; adjust to her ankle and push away the hospital demons that still plagued her.

And then there was Castle.

His words in her ear, murmuring to her; his hands across her thighs, holding her close and soothing the pain. His shoulder, rough beneath her cheek but solid, warm - alive. His eyes, piercing; the silk of his lip beneath her thumb, the press of his mouth to hers, the taste of his breath. The fact he was patronizing and overprotective but loving and tender in his intentions.

Not a bad first date, after all. She'd learned a lot about him. Them.

The car pulled up to her complex; the styrofoam boxes had been emptied despite the poor quality of the cooled food - they'd both been that hungry. Exiting the elevator, she clunked down her hall, let him open the door, hold it for her as she swung through. Sinking onto the couch, she shoved a few pillows under her ankle as he brought her a glass of water and two ibuprofen.

"How late is it?" she murmured before downing the medicine, her body already telling her it was well past nine, maybe even ten.

"Nearly ten thirty. Want something else to eat?"

She hummed, thought through the inventory in her fridge. "Make me a sandwich?"

The lines near his eyes crinkled as he pressed a smile. "Sure. What kind?"

"I think I've got some ham in the bottom drawer. And cheese is on the door."

He turned away to do her bidding.

"Oh - hey - before you do that - could you bring me a bag of peas from the freezer?" Good thing she had stopped at the grocery Thursday night. She heard him rummaging in the kitchen; he reappeared with the makeshift bag of ice and settled it around her ankle, draped a hand towel over the top to absorb the condensation before he disappeared again.

She settled herself deeper into the couch, grateful he was here to help her and surprised at how easy it had become to accept it - in only a matter of hours. Apparently, dinner and a kiss brought her a long way.

She heard him dropping items onto the counter, finding her silverware drawer and rummaging for utensils. His feet shuffled around, more drawers, the hinges of her pantry.

"Beckett - bread? Everything's mixed up."

Mixed up? "Bread box on the counter, back in the corner." She frowned, confused. When had he -

Oh. That's right. He'd made her pancakes. She rolled her eyes at the memory. If she took flak for that - she was going to be shot to pieces when the boys found out they were - were - whatever they were.

"It's a new apartment, Castle. Of course it's going to be different."

She heard the fridge open again.

"Well, you would think you'd have the same general layout. Milk?"

"Yes, please." She heard a whooshing sound. "Well, I changed it. It makes more sense now." she defended.

Another whoosh. Like an aerosol can.

"Castle!" she barked sharply. She could almost see his guilty look. "Get out of my whipped cream!"

A muffled laugh, another whoosh. Okay, so maybe not so guilty. More smug.

"I'm coming in there..." she started to push up, make good on her threat.

His head popped around the corner, investigating. "No, no, you're not. Stay down. I'll be right there."

"I just bought that," she grumbled, huffing back down.

A moment later, he trekked in with two plates balanced on one arm, two glasses clutched in the other hand.

"What, Castle, did you wait tables in college?"

"As a matter of fact, I did." He smirked. "Good way to study characters. Great way to pick up girls."

She bit into her sandwich, gave him a judging look. "Mmm. Such a playboy."

"Hey - I'm only waiting on one girl now, alright?"

She dropped her lashes, grabbed her glass of milk to bury her expression, wondered if that was a double entendre. Probably. Or perhaps it was her hypersensitive conscience.

They finished their meal over small talk, briefly discussing the botched take-down and moving on to her art pieces; compared notes on galleries. He rinsed the dishes, dropped them in her dishwasher, lifted the thawed bag of peas from her numb ankle and tossed them back into the freezer.

She was tired, her toes tingling from the cold. As much as she had enjoyed his company, she was looking forward to having her down time, getting ready for bed, sinking between the sheets.

"Need anything else?" he asked, standing at the opposite end of the couch, observing her ankle.

"Nope. You've been great, thanks." She pressed a smile, buried her hand in her hair as she tilted the weight of her head onto one elbow. "I release you; go home to Alexis."

He gave a half smile, tilted his head to mirror hers. "Oh - I told her not to count on me being home. She's not really expecting me."

Beckett felt her expression slip slightly as she judged his meaning. Was he...really? All night? "Castle, I'm good. You don't have to stay."

He shrugged one shoulder, darted his eyes between hers, feeling her out. "It's really not a big deal. I can be around in case - maybe - you need something, or something." He winced at his own choice of words.

She knew it wasn't a big deal for him. It was a big deal for her. She felt the corners of her eyes tightening; her cheeks tense as she fought to remain nonchalant, shrug it off. "Castle. I'm just going to be sleeping. I'm not going anywhere tomorrow. You've done a lot already; there is really nothing left to do."

"I know. But you heard the doc, your ankle is-"

"Yeah, I did hear him. He didn't say anything about twenty-four hour surveillance." She cracked a grin, desperately hoped he would be reasonable. "You do that for dying people, Castle, not sprained ligaments."

Castle smiled briefly and crossed his arms, looked at her. "Kate - come on," he said softly. "It'll make me feel better."

No. He didn't just play that card. Now she was the bad guy, no matter what. She sighed, dropped her eyes, felt the tension knotting her chest. She needed some alone time.

"Castle..." she trailed off, lowered her eyes, picked at the seam of her couch cushion.

She could feel the silence, her rejection slapping him in the face. But he'd been with her all night - he'd given her so much to think about already, so much to figure out.

When he spoke, his voice was achingly soft. "How come every time you hit a bump in the road, you shut me out?"

She shot her eyes to his, startled by how far he was taking this. "I'm not!" she returned, "I just need some space, a little time, ok?"

He blanched, and she realized she had used a very, very poor choice of words. She saw him look to the side, work his jaw, lose a battle with himself.

"So, what - you gonna call me tomorrow?"

The way he said it - the way he clenched on the last word and unfocused his eyes - it felt like that day all over again; the pain in her chest, the fog of medication, him standing beside her with flowers and Josh walking away, her emotions indecipherable and tearing at her bleeding heart.

She felt her breath shortening; she wasn't ready for this, couldn't face it yet. The lies and confessions and oh god, he was doing this, right here, right now - he was pushing this.

"Castle. Don't do this." She breathed.

He held her stare until she couldn't anymore.

"I'm not letting you." he said calmly, like ice. "I'm going to go pack an overnight bag and I'll be back in thirty minutes."

"No, you won't." She shook her head, desperately needing air that wasn't filled with his scent, especially now - now that he had brought this all back. "No, you're not coming back. Stay with your kid."

In two swift strides he was crouching beside her, hands gripping the couch cushions near her fingers, breath shallow and so, so close.

"Tell me you don't want me to come back." It was almost a whisper.

She couldn't meet his eyes, stared at his white knuckles, the breath gone from her lungs. She didn't mean that. Not at all. His timing - She'd barely recovered from her flashback. Didn't think their fragile relationship would survive her confession.

"Kate - look me in the eye, and then tell me you want me to walk through that door, and never come back."

She shook her head, still hiding her face behind the curtain of hair that protected her; made a strangled noise in the back of her throat as she choked on the tension, felt the hurt pierce her soul.

"You don't trust me," she murmured, finding her voice.

He rocked back on his heels, exhaled heavily. "I want to. I really want to."

She traced the tiny threads beneath her fingertips; could feel unspoken words.

His knees crackled as he stood. She tilted her head up, saw him walk into her bedroom.

"Castle?" she furrowed her brow, cracking under the pressure. "What are you doing?"

He reappeared in a moment, stood square in her doorway, the line of his shoulders hard. "You look tired. Do you need any help or can you manage?" He was all business and cool tones.

She shook her head, felt the weight of a thousand years upon her. "I'll be fine."

"Alright. Be in bed when I get back."

She ground her teeth, felt the familiar flare of heat at his words. "I'm not your daughter, Castle."

"As I'm well aware. She tells me things."

The door clicked,

the key spun the deadbolt,

And Kate threw a pillow over her face, several silent tears moistening the fabric.

* * *

><p>AN: So I did a big no-no: I wrote this and read it twice and then posted it. Not much editing...please tell me where I went astray. And then tell me how you liked it. :)


	9. Chapter 9

It was a block of icy wind and black sky before Castle had the presence of mind to tuck his chin beneath his scarf, shelter his hands in his coat pockets.

He didn't know why it hurt so much. He should expect it.

Barreling across the street, he dodged pedestrians down the next block. It was the Friday night crowd, laughing and hanging onto arms, lacing fingers. It was everywhere, what he wanted with her. But -

Space. Time.

Damn it.

The sting of those words - _again_ - spurred him down the third block, blinded his brain; left his heart ranting.

His feet slowed on the fourth block, the frustration fraying and dissolving into the chilled concrete, his emotional pendulum peaking and falling back to earth. On the fifth block he scuffed to a halt; rolled his head back on his shoulders. Staring unblinkingly at the luminescent haze with his face turned skyward, he inhaled ice and quenched the fire.

He'd screwed up.

It had been a visceral reaction; a reflexive defense mechanism in the face of her refusal to admit she wanted him near, that she needed his presence. He'd snapped at her for all those days she didn't call, dragged it up from the unspoken abyss in which it was buried. As if shaming her could help the situation; as if she could be swayed by pressure and accusations.

She was right. He didn't trust her.

He looked down, pressed the fingers of one hand about the bridge of his nose, turned slowly in a half circle, indecisive. Retrace his steps and apologize? Or call a cab, pack a bag, and deal with the ramifications of his words in the morning? Rifling a hand through his hair, he took two steps back towards her apartment, stopped, and turned again. Wondered if the other men in her life had felt as he did now: falling in love and ricocheting off her defenses.

So this is what she had meant that day, about her wall. About how it kept her from what she wanted. Maybe he shouldn't return at all; maybe he should respect her space, call her tomorrow, check in for lunch.

God, he hated it when they fought. He was so tense he could vomit.

He gazed blankly in the window of a brightly lit boutique; stared too long at the fashions draped across pale mannequins. He didn't know if he could go much further in this without some indication that she was willing to confide in him; something more verbal than the strange wordless waltz they had been dancing. Wanting it to work and fighting for it to work were entirely different mindsets. He knew she wanted it.

And he was fighting for it.

Hailing a cab, he ordered his address.

It only took a few minutes to collect his things and stuff a duffel with weekend essentials. On the return trip to her apartment, he stopped at a pharmacy; spent at least thirty minutes browsing the isles and googling "sprained ankles" on his phone. After collecting an assortment of items, he paid the cashier and trekked the last few blocks to her complex.

It had been nearly an hour since he left. She should be asleep by now.

He dropped his bag near the door and set the pharmacy supplies on the kitchen table; saw the couch was empty and her bedroom door closed. Treading softly, he stood outside the door and listened for movement, weighing the risks of checking on her; wondering how light a sleeper she was.

He twisted the knob and cracked the panel; let his eyes adjust to the darkness.

She was laying on her back, all soft shadows and liquid form with dark hair spilling across the pillows and lashes marking her cheeks. One arm was bent up at the elbow; a hand rested on the pillow near her head; fingers curled in perfect relaxation. He drifted his eyes to the foot of the bed - and good, she had utilized the pillow he had set for her before he left. Her wrapped ankle was settled into it, protruding beyond the edge of the comforter. He had untucked the bed sheets for that very purpose: so she wouldn't have to worry about the sheets catching and twisting while she slept.

The details were blurred by the dark room, but he could see the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, hear the faint whistling of air as it filled her lungs and caressed her lips. She made a soft noise; a sleepy crooning as she twitched her fingers, shifted a knee beneath the sheets. Reacting, he pulled the door shut, closed his eyes.

Oh, how he loved her.

* * *

><p>His eyes snapped open, the sound of a sudden thump resonating in his memory. A muffled curse from behind her door had him rolling off the couch, feet tangling in the throw and landing him gracelessly on the floor. He grunted, scrambled upwards and hop-stepped over the corner of the coffee table, barely finding his balance before he was at her door again, this time swinging it open without preamble.<p>

The glow of her bedside lamp revealed a very different scene than before. The duvet had been flung back, the sheets shoved against it in the middle of the mattress. Her water glass had toppled, rolled away onto the carpet. Beckett herself was curled on her right side down the bed, hair spilling over the edge. His first conclusion was that she was trying to find her overturned glass - but then he saw the way her knee was pulled up, the fingers of her left hand fumbling at the straps of the splint.

And then she looked at him; exhaled his name.

"Kate?" He stepped over to her, tried to figure out what was wrong.

"Help me take it off - it's too tight," she said, her voice gravelly from sleep.

He balked, unsure. "I don't know if-"

"Castle, just do it!" Her words were ground out, split between her teeth. "Cut it off if it would be faster - just...get it off." She folded tighter on herself, tried to get her other hand on the offending brace.

"Okay...okay." His hands slid down her calf, enveloping her ankle and slipping beneath her fingers. "Relax; let me take it." Her muscles were all steel bands and unyielding tension.

He extended her leg as she rolled onto her back; hiked his knee onto the bed so he could prop her calf upon his thigh as he busied his hands with the air splint. Her good knee was flexed up, toes brushing his folded leg on the mattress. She stared at the ceiling and pressed against the hard ridge of her nose; mumbled in fragments about young nurses and malpractice as he made short work of the splint and started unwinding the compression wrap. He noted the waffling left in her skin by the weave of the fabric; her toes too cold, her ankle too pale beneath the bruising.

"What is taking so long?" she huffed, cupping her hand over her eyes.

He looked in puzzlement at her bare ankle; at the wrap folded around his hand. "It's already off - what do you mean?"

Groaning, she pressed her uninjured toes into the mattress and slid them beneath his leg. "Seriously?" she muttered rhetorically, fighting obvious pain.

"What do you want me to do?"

She inhaled, shifted her arm across her face, hid her eyes in the crook of her elbow. "I don't know...there's nothing you can do."

False. He could think of a dozen ways to distract her...

Except they'd fought, and he wasn't sure what was allowed right now.

He swallowed helplessly, deep lines scoring his forehead as he thought through a solution. Her circulation must have been cut off as her swelling ankle had pressed against the ACE wrap and had had nowhere to go; she'd probably roused when the pressure had already become unbearable. And now, as her circulation returned, the nerves would be awakening in slow agony.

"I think it's going to get worse before it gets better," he murmured, palming her thigh.

"No kidding," she grunted beneath her arm.

A realization struck him. Ice. He'd bought her an ice cuff.

As quickly as he dared, he dropped his leg from the bed and scuttled into the kitchen, snagged the cuff from the freezer. It was a gel-filled bladder specifically shaped for ankles; the gel was thick with cold but still pliable. He lined it with a towel as he swept back into her room; dropped her ankle into the cuff and folded the flap across the top, securing her joint within a chilled cocoon.

"Castle..." she whined, starting to roll away from him to curl up again, reach her ankle. "What did you do? No wraps - the pressure-"

He ran his hand up her side to still her; leaned over her. "It'll help. Just get through it."

She flattened onto her back, grimacing through a groan; turned her face away and repositioned her arm across her features. She was hiding from him - didn't want him to witness her weakness and vulnerability, couldn't let him share in her pain.

As usual.

His eyes glimpsed a white bottle on the bedside table. "You should take some ibuprofen," he suggested.

"I already did."

Castle stared at the elbow over her face, wrestled with his impulses. Straightening, he let his fingers slide off her near shoulder. He couldn't stand here and not touch her; he couldn't watch this and not pull her into his arms, whisper condolences into her ear. He wanted to be her anchor; wanted so much more - but -

Space. Time.

And he was done asserting himself. She could have it.

Castle shifted his weight towards the doorway. It felt wrong, like abandonment – but he turned anyway, stepped to exit. Because he couldn't: he wasn't strong enough to stay and not act, not caress, not love. His fingers trailed the edge of the bed as he turned, nails skimming the soft sheet.

Pressure stopped his retreat; he glanced down his trailing arm and saw her fingertips hooked around his, working their way around his hand. His brain didn't register it immediately, he didn't understand -

"Don't go." Her voice was so soft, sliding into his heart and breaking all the valves. She brought her face around; looked at him with deep eyes - the same expression she'd worn in the car so many days ago; when she'd refused to speak of her flashback. The one that made him want to storm the world for her, crush her to him and never let her go. His wounded doe.

"Kate..." his breath was ragged, stumbling. "I can't - I need -"

She shuddered slightly, squeezed her eyes, twitched her fingers to tug him closer.

He turned towards her, shortened the distance so she wasn't straining to reach him; so he could place his palm around hers and rub his thumb across the tendons of her hand. It wasn't enough. Reaching forward, eyes locked on hers, he skimmed his free hand across her forehead, started to tuck the wild strands behind her ear-

And he couldn't take it.

Burying his fingers into her hair, splaying them along the side of her scalp, he bent over her, used his grip against her head to guide her gaze square with his.

"Kate. I can't watch this and do nothing about it. I can't stay and not - not make it better, not-" he clamped his jaw; frustrated and restraining himself – frightened at how much he might say.

But she was drawing their joined hands to her chest; shifting herself away from the edge of the bed.

"Castle," she murmured, "come here." Her lashes dropped as another wave of pain caught her off guard. "Come make it better."

He didn't need a second plea.

The slide of his body against hers wasn't arousing or sensual - she was too tense and rigid, his mind too concerned for her well-being. But it was good. So, so good. He slid his arms around her and rolled her weight onto his obliques, wedged a shoulder beneath hers as her forehead dropped into the slope of his neck.

She hummed - in satisfaction or in pain - and slipped one arm over his side, gripped his cotton tee.

"Better?" he whispered, letting his fingers trail beside her spine; appreciate the gentle curve. The tension was melting from him; the frustration and doubt an afterthought...she may kick him out tomorrow, but tonight she was in his arms.

Beckett didn't answer; just nuzzled her nose into his neck as she inhaled slowly, lingering, before releasing a rush of delicious warmth as her body melted and became as liquid against him.

Answer enough.

He answered her sigh with a tighter embrace, turned his nose into her temple.

_I love you._

He wanted, so bad, to say those words. Instead, he squeezed his eyes to hold back the tidal wave of emotion drowning his heart, clenched his jaw with the power of it. He was holding her too tight, but what the hell - he didn't know when he was going to have another chance.

The moment swelled, subsided. He loosened his arms, tilted his head to hover his lips near her cheekbone, brushing the fine hairs as he spoke. "Still feel it?"

She hummed again, a deep vibration that shot his core. "My ankle? Not much. It's going numb."

He smiled at the way she said it - as if she felt something else; as if the ankle was an afterthought.

"Why are you smiling?" she lilted as she shifted to put some space between their faces.

He chuckled; let his eyes drink her grey-green ones, fascinated at the flecks of gold in the lamplight. "Because I'm so powerful. Just one Castle-cuddle and all your pain is...poof." He gave an extra puff of air to accentuate, felt a delighted affection when she reflexively jerked a blink halfway through an eye-roll.

"You are so egotistical."

"I know. It's what makes me such a great writer: I'm rejection proof."

She feigned annoyance. "It's better because it's numb and medicated; not from your imagined superpowers." Her eyebrows drew together. "What did you-?" Pushing up against his shoulder, she twisted her head to get a look at the cuff on her ankle. "Huh. Where did you find that?"

"I may have stopped at Ankles-R-Us on the way over." He was smiling broader now; the way she was turned left her hair folding across his face. "I'm going to say...black cherry blossom."

She swung her head back around, looked at him quizzically. "Hm?" And then her features smoothed, hinted at a smile. "No. Cranberry almond." She paused, flicked her eyes, swayed a fraction closer. "With fruit extracts."

He turned his nose slightly into the curtain of hair falling beside his ear. "Hmm. There is some almond in there."

Her weight was dropping against him, almost subtly. She was definitely closer.

"But I think they got the cranberry scent all wrong," he continued; watching, waiting. "It's cherry; I'd put money on it." He could almost see her thoughts; forced himself to stay. Her eyes flicked again-

And she closed the last distance quickly, took his bottom lip. He softened his lips to hers, followed her gentle cadence. She brought his lip between her teeth and held it gently as she slid her tongue along its edge…and released, letting him glide along the smooth edge of her enamel. A breath, a moment of shared air - and she found him again, gentle suckling and light caresses before she broke away, angled her head to brush her nose near his mouth as she released short, shallow breaths.

He touched his lips to the tip of her nose, sighed lightly against her skin. Wanted to take all of her, now.

"You said thirty minutes," she whispered, eyes closed.

He was still reeling from her taste; grasped for context. "Thirty minutes?" His brain was stuck on warm silk and spiced honey and – _oh _– he could so do that again.

"You said you'd be back in thirty minutes."

"It was more of a guesstimate," he mumbled, confused.

She raised her eyes and studied him; little creases deepening near the corners of her eyes. Something shifted in her expression, dark and somber - and she dropped her lids; slipped down against him and positioned her head on his shoulder; dragged the backs of her fingers up his chest and left her hand curled against his sternum.

Oh. Oh, no.

"Kate - you thought I walked out on you?" His face drew together, incredulous. "That I wasn't coming back?"

Her palm flattened, her ribs expanded against his with her slow inhale. "No." Her fist curled again. "Maybe." An index finger stroked out, absently traced small patterns into his shirt. "It's...happened before."

His heart skidded in trepidation. "I think that..." he tried to add some tact; "every time, I've come back. I mean, we're here, right?"

Her finger stilled, outstretched. "No, Castle; before that. Eventually, they all stopped coming back."

Her words landed on his chest as an anvil, heavy and hot with implication. He couldn't formulate an answer, didn't know where to start. "Kate -" He brought an arm across his body and buried his fingers in her hair, cupping his palm around her ear as he angled his neck to find her forehead with his lips. "I am not going to leave you - I'm too stubborn for that. Big ego. Rejection proof."

She gave a noncommittal hum, partially in amusement and partially unconvinced. "Way too big an ego."

He was formulating a proper return when she spoke again.

"It's just - it's easy to say things in the heat of the moment, you know? It's hard to know what's...true."

He felt a moment of panic; but the fact that she was seeking refuge in his arms - warm and reflective and _sharing_ - that calmed him down, eased his nerves. And then he realized what she'd said; wondered which moments, exactly, she was talking about.

Wondered how much she remembered.

He chose his speech carefully, didn't want to lose the thread. "I think actions speak for the words. Actions over time...they resonate the truth." He could feel the blood pounding in his ears, everything suddenly flushed and too hot; hoped his body's nervous response wouldn't betray him to her.

But she didn't respond: just breathed against him, let him stroke her hair until his arm grew tired of being held up across his body and he dropped his elbow, rested his hand around her upper arm. He lacked the courage to probe; the stakes were too high.

He thought she may have fallen asleep, and was about to shift into a new position when she spoke again.

"Why me? Of all the women. Why me."

He didn't know what she was angling for; decided to placate and stay in safer zones. "Because you don't believe my crap."

She huffed a light chuckle, seemed to be waiting for more.

"And you're not throwing yourself at me." Keep it safe, add some humor.

"Hmm." She curled her fingers against his chest again, made a loose fist. "So it's a challenge then."

He had half expected her to take his answer and drop it - or at least take it with more humor. But she was digging deeper, and he wasn't sure what she was looking for. "No - well, yes - but that only makes it more worth it."

"Makes what more worth it?"

_When you say it back, when you give me everything; when you see what I see for us-_

"Being here. With you."

"So it's for the moments; a respite from the world."

He was having a hard time playing her game; he was running out of answers. "It's more than the moments." So, so much more. It was the song in his soul.

She made another noncommittal hum, moved her hand towards the neckline of his T-shirt and stretched two fingers to feel the ridges of the seam, stuttered her index finger sideways along its curve.

He felt as if he was in free-fall, his heart squeezing deeper into his chest, frightened. "What are you wanting, Kate?"

She shifted her head a little closer on his shoulder as she sighed; strained a fingertip over the edge of his neckline and hooked it there, resting. "I'm not sure," she whispered, the air rippling across his collarbone and causing his spine to prickle at the nape of his neck. "Rest. Freedom to be who I want to be."

"You'll get there. Your strength is...there is no doubt in my mind."

He could feel her nose press into his shirt. "I know." A few breaths. "I had a good session with the therapist on Thursday."

He looked at her, crinkled the corners of his eyes in a smile. "Oh yeah?" New thread, more sharing. She was on a roll tonight.

"Yeah." Her focus shifted between his eyes. "We talked about honesty."

His spine electrified, every sense heightened. "Well, that's good." Forced a nonchalant tone, chose neutral words.

Beckett dropped his gaze to stare at the finger hooked in his T-shirt. "About how it is a step towards freedom."

He swallowed; heart flipping over with anticipation and his stomach knotting with dread as he realized she'd been following one thread the whole time, from different angles. And now that it charged the air around him -

He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Her breaths caught a few times, as if she started to say something but couldn't get it out. Castle remained rigidly still; focusing on the ceiling and not the roar in his ears or the surge in his veins.

She shifted again; angled her head so her nose brushed his jugular, so she was closer, so she wasn't talking into his chest. So when she spoke, her words washed warm air across his neck, her secrets on his skin.

"Did you mean it?"

His muscles turned to water; his heart tumbled to the floor.

* * *

><p>AN: Evil, I know. But sweet? I felt she wouldn't do it in a direct way, since their relationship is so indirect in every other way. But, she is ready to go into a relationship, doesn't want it to be complicated, and knows she has to do the hard thing - so she tells him, but indirectly. And as to her attitude switch from the last chapter - hopefully you got the feeling she was kinda scared when Castle didn't come back and was thinking "oh shit, here I go again, self-destruct..." and decided to give him what he wanted if he came back, i.e. some openness. It was a wake-up call, of sorts. And I suppose if I had to explain all that for you to get it, I didn't do my job as a writer. My humblest apologies.

And ok, I promise, I won't beat up Beckett anymore. But that really did happen to my ankle once - don't sleep with compression wraps, ha ha!

Review? if you want more? ha ha ... you know I love the story as much as you all - _I_ can't wait to see what happens next! Thanks to all of you who have reviewed! SO MUCH!


	10. Chapter 10

She knew.

He'd suspected it. But suspecting was merely theoretical, and knowing was...certain. Certain, and demanding resolution.

She knew.

Since when? Monday? Or maybe earlier - perhaps a separate flashback, or a sudden recovery of her memory in a therapy session. Because how else...?

No. She wouldn't lie, to him, about that.

Would she?

Her question echoed, she wanted to know: had he meant it?

_Yes._ His heart answered. _I did. And still do-_

And if she had?

_-Love you._

His lips moved to speak his heart, but he stumbled on a thought -

_Do you?_

It was a brief detour; a small speed bump that he passed over; but it was enough to slow the train wreck of his emotions, enough to stall his tongue - enough to remember that this was new; that hours ago she was canceling a date, that she'd kissed him one night and been distant the next...

Beckett misinterpreted his prolonged silence as confusion, murmuring clarification. "When I was shot...what you said."

She wasn't breathing, and she'd hooked another finger in his collar as if to ground herself. She needed his affirmation.

"Why do you think I'm still here, Kate?" he finally rumbled, "If not for that?" His left arm was beneath her, holding her against his side; he flexed and drew her closer, rolled her a little further over his chest. Her head pushed beneath his chin as she gripped his collar in a fist. "Because I mean it," he whispered.

She took a ragged inhale, as if she'd been too long without air. It took her a minute to catch her breath, to process his words -

"You mean it," she articulated cautiously. "You would...say it again."

He shifted to put enough distance between them so he could lift her chin with his fingers, capture her eyes with his stare. "At the right time, I will say it again."

She didn't even blink, her eyes holding his with the uncertainty of a lost child: wanting to trust but gauging how much.

He leaned in, caressed her lips with his own.

_Trust me._

She responded meekly, and he let the moment wash gently over them before he relaxed back into the pillow and cradled her against his breast, fingers woven beneath her hair.

As they rested against each other, breathing in soft rhythms, he struggled to find his place within the shifting sands of their relationship, amongst the cracking and reversing of their roles as he became her lover and she became the loved, as he offered to protect and she learned to trust. She felt it too - he could tell by her quiet stillness in his arms, by the butterfly kisses sweeping the rise of his collarbone.

They had passed the point of no return.

The sand settled, his mind cleared, and he experienced a moment of sheer euphoria.

She hadn't run. She was here. In his arms.

And she knew.

He closed his eyes; drank in the depth of her scent; allowed himself to drift on a high sea of emotion as he untangled his fingers and caressed her curves, rested his hand in the valley of her waist...

A small detour; a submerged thought:

_Since when?_

Grounded his boat.

He exhaled slowly; tried to recover his previous state and ignore the straggling nag in his brain...but he couldn't float, couldn't repair the damage.

Ignorance was bliss. If he didn't ask, it would remain a theoretical lie. Equally possible and equally not.

A theory that would metastasize until it poisoned an argument or exploded against a defensive wall.

Castle opened his eyes.

"Kate?"

"Hmm?" Her lashes flicked up across his skin, attentive.

"When you experience flashbacks, do they..." he searched for phrasing, "...do you re-live blocked memories?"

Her fingers loosed themselves from his collar, palm flattening as she smoothed the wrinkles in his shirt. Her lashes stroked him once, twice. "That's a random question," she remarked, reluctant.

A grimace shot through him. Wrong tactic.

But she continued. "It's more…emotional, like…" she dragged her palm down, rested it over his abdomen. Suddenly she tensed and angled away. "I don't know. They're stupid and irrational."

It was fortunate he had his arm wrapped around her; she stopped as he tensed his forearm against her back. "Kate - I'm sorry." Caressing his fingertips over the knuckles of the hand sliding off his stomach, he fingered beneath the edge of her pinky. "The only stupidity was in the question."

She curved her palm in response to his pressure; let him wrap his fingers beneath hers and draw her hand across his body, tugging lightly on her arm. She turned back into his side; spread her fingers to interlace with his as they made a fist on his chest.

The black fear ebbed. It was like scouting a minefield.

Ignorance was bliss.

Curling over her, he kissed the skin beside her eye. "I'm sorry," he trailed over her cheekbone. "Forget about it."

"I wish I could," she replied bitterly. "That's the whole problem."

He wanted to ask what her therapist thought about it; but her body wasn't relaxed, not like before, and she was only lying against his side instead of draped half across his chest. He should probably move; let her sleep - he realized he didn't even know what time it was, except for the sense of deep night.

She shook her fingers free, scratched at her nose and curled her hand near her chin as she distanced herself, retracted into her shell.

He started to tell her goodnight, but hesitated as he noticed the deep groove between her brows; the way her thumb had slipped over her bottom lip. She looked as if she was solving a case, as if she was staring at the murder board and weighing her strategy.

He smiled, took a finger and pressed it against that groove, dragged it down to lay lengthwise upon her nose. "I need to let you get some sleep."

She blinked rapidly in surprise, the line disappearing as she smoothed her brow and shot her eyes up to his. "No; I - it's ok. You don't have to sleep on the couch."

Tempting. But she seemed troubled; and he wouldn't mind a little processing time of his own. "The couch and I are good friends; it's very comfy." He grinned sideways and tapped her nose. "Rest up. Best healer, hmm? No more midnight tumbling." He withdrew his hand along her jaw, jiggled the shoulder she was resting on.

She twitched the corners of her mouth up in agreement. But she didn't move, didn't roll away.

"Hey-" he looked at her questioningly, "-can I have my arm back?"

She parted her lips on a frown, and there it was again, that tell-tale groove. "Castle; my flashbacks - I only experience what I remember."

"Oh," he said reflexively. And then it hit him.

She'd lied to him, that day.

If she'd said it earlier, when he was expecting it, he could have parried the blow. But as it was, he had already moved on and decided it was harmless theory for the time being - and the sword of truth came flying through his armor, slicing through his breath on the way to impaling his heart.

He tried to be brave; forced some humor onto his face. "I was kinda hoping you had just figured it out...on Monday or something."

She pulled in her bottom lip, barely twitched her head with wide eyes.

"You-" he lost the words, tried again. "You knew the whole time."

"Yes." Her voice cracked softly. "I'm sorry."

The blackness of the summer was spiraling within him - he struggled against it, but there were no theories now: only certainty. Once again, he was in free-fall, and his emotions were shredding the parachute of his heart. She hadn't just needed space from the case. His words were the reason she had intentionally - and _knowingly_ - left him crashing in despair.

He suddenly understood her need for space.

"What time is it?" he managed.

Her brows dropped together in confusion. "I...does it matter?"

He twisted his head and found her clock. "It's been over twenty minutes," he mumbled. "The ice needs to come off." He couldn't think straight - he kept hearing her words, about how it all went black, about how she would call; kept feeling the impact of how she didn't, of how she'd heard his love and left him unrequited for months, until -

Until when? She hadn't said much about loving him back.

Beckett pushed up on one elbow so she could see his face. "Rick."

"Stay here," he grunted, freeing his tingling left arm as he rolled away and swung his legs off the bed; stood and reached for her ankle. As if she could go anywhere.

She tensed and twitched it away. "We should talk about this. Screw my ankle - I can't feel it anyway."

Avoiding her eyes, he swept a hand farther and caught her below the calf. "Which is exactly why it needs to come off, Beckett."

Her silence reprimanded his formality as he swiftly removed the damp cuff.

"I'm not leaving," he murmured, hoping to ease the sting. Stepping across her bedroom, he collected the water glass and ACE wrap on the way out - knowing that if he turned back, he'd break: either yelling or crying, he wasn't sure. Exiting through the door, he didn't even make it to the kitchen; just sagged onto the couch and hunched his face into his hands.

* * *

><p>There was never any doubt in his mind he was going back to her. It was more a matter of when.<p>

Twenty minutes later, Castle stood from the couch; carried the ice cuff and water glass into the kitchen. Standing with his arms braced against the sink he watched the water fill the glass and then flow over, and over, and over. Forgiveness.

Love keeps no record of wrongs.

He stayed there until the last traces of bitterness and resentment were locked away, until he felt he could let it go and look her in the eye and say he had made his peace with it. And then he stayed there a moment longer while he decided to forgive if it happened again - that he wouldn't store it as future ammunition, that when he forgave her she could know he wouldn't pull it from behind his back to knife her in a heated moment.

Because forgiveness was a decision, not a feeling.

Shutting off the tap, he dried the outside of the full glass and gathered up the compression wrap in his fist, crossing her apartment with sudden courage and hope. Irrational, perhaps - but with the past forgiven he felt free to move into the future.

Which was exactly what he was planning to do.

The door was only partially closed; he hadn't really tried to shut it on his way out. Bumping it open with his shoulder as he passed beneath the frame, he stepped to the nightstand and set down the water glass before circling back to the foot of the bed. Beckett was curled on her right side facing the door, looking small and thin with the sheets still mussed and piled against her back in the center of the bed. Her foot-pillow was awkwardly tucked beneath her swollen left ankle with her right foot shoved under the same. Another bed pillow was wrapped in her arms, partially obscuring her face as she curled around it. She looked like she might be sleeping - but he didn't think so.

Castle leaned over the foot of the bed and stroked a hand over her bare ankle, slipping it under the hem of her cotton pants and running his palm up her calf. "Hey...wanna roll over so I can wrap you up?"

She squeezed the pillow down so she could rest her cheek on top of it, blinking at him in the low light before she slowly twisted her hips and flattened her back against the mattress, the pillow falling half over her chest with one arm still hooked around it. He tediously began wrapping from toe to heel as he had seen the nurse do - as the care papers had instructed him - as WebMD had diagrammed for him. Maybe too loosely; but that would be okay. Better safe than sorry.

Finishing, he strapped on the air splint. "Too tight?"

He couldn't see her face over the pillow; and if she spoke, it was too soft to hear.

Oh, Kate.

Climbing carefully over her extended limbs, he crawled up the bed, slinking a hand around her waist and beneath her lower back as he tugged her weight towards him. "Katie," he murmured tenderly. "Come here, beautiful."

He felt her stuttered exhale vibrate through his hand on her ribs, and then he was looking over the top of the pillow, staring at her bright eyes and the edge of her lip tugging against her teeth; and oh, how her expression broke his heart. Drawing the pillow away, he wedged his other arm under her, between her shoulders and the bed, using his leverage to draw her towards his chest as he settled beside her.

Tentatively, she touched a hand to his chest as she turned towards him. "I'm sorry," she whispered, eyes downcast.

He breathed his lips along her jawline, dipped to kiss the thin skin behind her ear. "I love you."

Her chest expanded in staccato against his, air sucking through her parted lips.

"Kate..." He traced his lips along the circular ridge of her ear, touched another kiss to her temple. "I love you."

And she dropped her face away, burying it in the crook of his neck as she hooked one arm up over his shoulder and the other around his ribs, holding herself against him. Released tension trembled through her muscles and shook out her breath in rags...and he thought his skin might be slicker where her lashes touched.

Crushing her to him with equal force, he whispered forgiveness into her hair – over and over and over again.

* * *

><p>AN: A shorter one, but I felt bad for the evil way I ended the last chapter and wanted to post this one earlier than later. Thanks for all your awesome reviews by the way - wow, I was floored. I wrote this in half the time because of all that motivation! What did you think? Was I in Castle's head too much? Or was it a good vantage point?

Sadly, I am planning on ending this story in a few more chapters...the 2-3am writing sessions have got to stop, ha ha!


	11. Chapter 11

Note: Spoilers for the third Richard Castle novel, _Heat Rises._

* * *

><p>He didn't sleep very well.<p>

The opportunity was so rare; so achingly beautiful; so far beyond belief that his senses maintained their hyper-vigilance despite the best arguments of his tired mind. Every time she moved against him, his eyes would open, body alive and aware; every shift in her breathing would alert his subconscious and draw him out of whatever doze he had convinced himself to fall into. As if tonight had to last forever; as if it was all he had to carry him through what tomorrow may bring.

Kate, on the other hand, slept like a baby on his shoulder, unburdened and free.

Somewhere after dark and before dawn, his body finally gave in to the oblivion. He woke once, but the light hurt his eyes and his head ached from scant sleep. Turning away from the brightness, he found he had space to sprawl out as he snagged a pillow and buried his face; stretched his arms beneath the cool cloth. And gave in again.

When his head landed on the mattress, and sunlight was everywhere no matter which way he turned, he finally opened his eyes. Inexplicably, his pillow had disappeared from beneath him. He blinked, head sideways, noting this wasn't his room, or his bed - and that definitely wasn't his closet. Way too many heels. And suddenly everything went dark as the pillow folded itself over his head.

"Castle."

He dragged a hand in a wide arc up the sheets, slopped it across the softness covering his face and flung it behind him, grunting.

"You missed."

He smiled at the playfulness, at getting to wake up like this, at...everything. Just smiled.

"Castle - get up."

He heard the swish in time; managed to throw up an arm as he turned his head, blocking the blow so it rolled across his back and toppled off the edge of the bed. "Good morning to you too," he groused humorously.

"Do you always sleep like this?" Beckett gestured to his diagonal slant, the bed nearly stripped of sheets and blankets. "It's nearly ten." She was sitting against the headboard near the nightstand, her laptop angled across her thighs.

"So?" He picked up his head and rose onto his elbows to get a better view. "It's Saturday."

She looked at him and gave a begrudging hum, amusement flicking the corners of her mouth, something gentle in her eyes.

"What?" he asked, trying to give her steel and failing miserably.

"Mm," she smirked. "Impressive bed head."

He shifted his weight onto one elbow, scuffed his other hand through his hair. "Yeah, so?" Opening his mouth for a smart retort, he stopped as he registered her dark wash jeans and scoop-necked shirt, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. "So would you if you didn't get up at such an ungodly hour."

She huffed in disagreement, pressed her lips in a smile. "You made it worse."

"Well then," he returned, pushing onto his side and propping his head on one hand. "You come fix it."

"Really? That's your line, Castle?"

He shrugged. "A man can try."

Beckett shook her head, returned to her laptop as she flicked a finger across the mousepad and resumed typing.

He watched her languidly; the elegant play of her fingers mesmerizing in the morning light. She glanced at him - and his sleepy tongue tumbled, uncensored.

"What made you come find me, after the summer?"

Regarding him a moment, she slid her eyes away and shut her laptop. "A lot of things," she answered cryptically, lifting the laptop onto the nightstand. "Now get up...aren't you hungry?"

He yawned, rolled onto his stomach and rested his head on his folded arms. So sharing was a night thing; he would have to tread softly in the day. "My stomach hasn't woken up yet," he mumbled, stalling. He liked this playful morning pillow talk; liked the fact she had been sitting beside him while he slept, that she felt comfortable enough to smirk at his mussed hair. It seemed that if he stayed here, the day would never start; that they could exist in limbo and not have to define boundaries; that she wouldn't have the chance to push him away.

Her hips twisted awkwardly so she could nudge at his shins with her good foot. "Well I'm starving. So get your lazy self out of my bed and let's make some breakfast."

She had waited to make breakfast with him? "Okay," he mumbled, "I'm going." Dragging himself off the bed and yanking his t-shirt straight again, he saw her glide off the opposite edge and snag her crutches from the nightstand, deftly positioning herself between them. As he shuffled across the room, a belated thought struck him. "Hey -" he asked, turning in the doorway with one palm rubbing his eye, "how did you carry your laptop on crutches?"

She was close behind him, and brought the end of a crutch up against his knee, nudging him back around. "Don't worry about it. I'm pretty good with these things."

He grunted, turned, and padded into the kitchen.

Now that he was here, standing before the open fridge, he realized how empty his stomach actually was. Eggs, milk, orange juice, strawberries, there was a meat drawer - what was in it? Oh yes, he remembered...ham and roast beef, but no bacon, he didn't think...maybe sausage links?...no, that's right, it was a pack of hot dogs. So. Maybe she had a waffle iron. Alexis could email him his mother's recipe-

He heard punctuated clicking behind him: the sound of her crutches jiggling against their bolts.

"Hey - don't you think it's cold enough outside?" Her chin bumped his shoulder, eyes peering over his outstretched arm as he held the door open. "Would you mind shutting the fridge and stop racking up my energy bill? I can tell you what's in there."

"Oh. Yeah, sure. Sorry." He lost his train of thought at her voice so close to his ear, startled by her voluntary proximity. Maybe today wasn't going to be so tedious, after all. "So, lady, what are you hungry for?" he asked, turning towards her as he shut the door, wanting to see her face as he spoke.

"I don't care. Pancakes." She was hunched down to rest on her crutches with her shoulders pushed up to her ears, shrugging at him with big eyes and a clueless grin. Totally ridiculous. And completely adorable.

He laughed because he could, felt his smile surge through his heart and into his soul. "Oh, pancakes! I've already made you those - how about waffles this time?"

"You just want an excuse to use my whipped cream," she replied, tilting her head sideways.

If she got any cuter, he was going to sweep her up and kiss her right there. "Nonsense. I would use it on the pancakes as well." He crinkled his eyes endearingly at her. "Why don't you go put your foot up and I'll text Alexis for the best waffle recipe you've ever tasted." Pausing, he glanced over the counters. "Do you have a waffle iron?"

"Yes, I do; it's over here."

And before he could stop her, she had crossed the kitchen with one swing, popped open her pantry and nudged the door wide with a crutch before hopping closer and reaching in with both hands.

"Whoa, hey-" Castle quickly stepped up behind her and reached over her shoulders as she lifted the iron off the shelf, using his height advantage to pluck it from her hands. "Let me help you." Bringing it over her head as she dropped her hands, he stepped away and set it on the counter.

"Castle, I was just going to hand it to you," she protested as she swung back over, looking at him reprovingly.

"Okay - but you could have just told me where it was."

"Yes, but...that would defeat the point." She wasn't slumped down now, and her spine was rigid, holding her at full height.

Tilting his head slightly, he held his reply, sensing this was about more than waffle irons.

A sigh, and she was relaxed again. "So what goes in these oh-so-wonderful waffles?"

Alright, they needed to work on communication. But then, he already knew that. "Well..." he patted his thighs, realized he was still in his pajama pants. "I remember the ingredients...but I need to call Alexis for proportions." Glancing at the table, he frowned. "Where did I leave my phone?"

"It's over on the coffee table by the couch," she offered, pivoting and bobbing to the fridge she held it open with a planted crutch as she reached for the small box of strawberries.

As he walked towards the couch, it dawned on him that she needed to be empowered despite her injury; that she needed to feel she was contributing and not leeching. Realized he needed to stop doting on her and start including her. A part of him felt proud of himself for figuring it out; another part wondered what else simmered beneath the surface of their poor communication.

Whisking his phone off the low table, he dialed up Alexis and subsequently spun about, searching for - oh, there; Beckett was barking to get his attention, waving a pen in the air. Several minutes later, he laid his phone onto the kitchen table beside the scrawled recipe before stealing a couch pillow and tossing it onto one of her kitchen chairs.

"Ok. How about this." Walking up behind her, he crowded close and snagged a strawberry from where she was cutting them into a bowl. "You sit at the table-" he popped the whole berry into his mouth, "-'nd I'll giff you the ingredients." He reached again, was swatted away...and brought his other hand around her opposite side with a sneak attack, scooping a few cut strawberries from the bowl.

"Castle!" she laughed in reprimand, twisting her head to look at him hovering over her shoulder. "Leave some for the waffles."

Her eyes flicked - barely - but it was all the encouragement he needed. Wrapping a hand around her waist to stabilize her, he dipped to sneak a kiss.

It was quick, but the second one was slightly longer, more lingering.

"Mmph," Beckett pulled away, licking her lips. "Go brush your teeth."

He waggled his eyebrows and stole another juicy berry from the box as he retreated, dangling it in triumph. "Gotcha..."

She rolled her eyes; turned back to her task.

This was all too easy...too comfortable...he kept waiting for the hammer to fall, for her to ask him to leave, to let her think it over; nudge him home to Alexis. Yet, clearly she was content to have him near; seemed to be okay with this next step in their relationship - or rather, their giant leap: accepting his love.

What about her wall? Her mother's case?

He spit into the sink, washed his mouth out, stared at himself in the mirror. Indeed, what about her mother's case? It was fine. He was protecting her. No qualms about it.

Tossing his toothbrush back into his toiletry bag, he meandered back into the kitchen, found her opening drawers and collecting cup measures and teaspoons. And with a spike of frightening anticipation, he realized that today was the day: If she wasn't going to bring it up; he was. They had to name this dance; had to define some aspect of their roles and reveal a few expectations - or else they would each be stepping over the other's toes; neither leading, neither following; both confused at the direction of their spin and arguing their way through it.

Not how he saw this going.

He allowed her to load him with a mixing bowl, measuring utensils, and a wooden spoon before trekking to the table as she clicked-swished behind him. She settled into one chair and stretched her foot out to rest on another, sitting sideways to the table as she picked up the recipe and perused their plan of action. Castle trotted to his overnight bag; dug around until he found what he was looking for and returned to her side.

"Hey," he said, nudging his knee against her thigh where it cleared the edge of the seat. "I noticed you're only wearing one sock."

Beckett looked up from the paper. "Yeah - it was too much work to pull one on over all the bandages."

He whipped his hand out from behind his back and displayed his sock for her approval. "Well, how about we solve that, hmm?" He flipped it around, made a show of examining its qualities. "I think it's large enough to cover ankle 2.0 over there, plus it has extra stitching to reinforce the toe _and_ the heel - so I'm deeming this as a highly qualified medical-"

"Okay - Castle, yes." She was giving him her pressed-lip smile, the one she used when she was trying to hide some deeper emotion or suppress some humorous affection. Her fingers reached up from her lap and pressed warmly against his upper thigh. "Would you go put it on for me?"

He grinned, encouraged by the light in her eyes as he turned and carefully worked the sock over the splint. "I wonder what the boys would say about me dressing you..." he mused, pushing up her jeans as he rolled the tube of the sock around her lower calf.

"It's a sock, Castle."

"...and in _my_ clothes!"

"If they know about _any_ of it, I'll nod to Gates and you'll be..." she snapped her fingers.

He glanced up at her, noticed the smirk of her mouth as he tugged the hem down. "Mm...secrecy. Heightens the tension."

She rolled her eyes, shooing him with the paper. "Go bring me the flour and sugar."

Walking back into the kitchen, Castle peered into the pantry and spotted the set of ceramic black jars on the second shelf up. Cradling one in each arm, he trucked back to the table and dropped them within her reach. "If you don't mind my asking, what were you typing up this morning?"

She was already popping open the lids and reaching for her cup measure. "Oh, just the incident report," she said, and then leveled her brow at him pointedly. "Boring paperwork. Figured I'd get it out of the way before you were awake enough to whine about it."

He was already back at the pantry, reaching for the salt and digging around for the baking powder. "Did you elaborate on my crucial role in identifying the suspect and rescuing a fallen officer?"

"No; I usually try and minimize the role of my shadowing civilian. Because he is supposed to be strictly _observing_."

He chuckled, didn't even try to defend himself. "Hey, Beckett-"

She glanced up, one hand dumping a cup of sugar into the bowl.

"-catch." The baking powder was already leaving his hand, making a smooth arc across the kitchen.

"Castle-!" She dropped the measuring cup into the bowl; shot her other hand out to capture it before the can sailed past her shoulder. "What are you doing?"

"Nice!" he laughed, ducking back into the pantry. "I heard you order Ryan to double the uniforms in that sector last night." He held up a small cylinder. "Salt?"

"No, don't-" and both of her hands reached to stop the tumbling object as it fired towards her face. "Castle, stop! I don't trust your luck."

"Luck?" He narrowed his eyes, reached in for the baking soda while holding her stare. "Skill, detective. Pure skill." Launching the box of soda, he felt a swell of satisfaction as it sailed towards her waist, falling into her waiting hands.

She lifted the box onto table, glaring. "I've got white Christmas all over my lap, Castle," she growled.

He craned his neck to see her over the counter; saw the dusting of soda across her dark jeans. "Huh. Guess you should of closed it when you put it back in the pantry."

She arched her eyebrows in mimicry. "Guess you shouldn't have hurled it across my kitchen."

"Just honing your reflexes while you are laid up: you are still fit for duty," he grinned, crossing over and offering a damp towel to soak up the fine powder. "So did any foul-smelling perps turn up?"

"Well you won't be if you pull any more of those brainless antics," she grumbled, accepting the towel and brushing it briskly across her thighs. "And no; I haven't heard anything. Now go mix up the wet ingredients," she ordered, tossing the towel up against his chest.

"Yes ma'am," he dipped his head in a mock bow, turned back towards the kitchen. "So we just wait?"

"For the most part," she sighed, measuring out a careful teaspoon of salt. "Now I've got two dead-end cases waiting on a fresh break."

Castle cracked a few eggs into a stainless steel bowl; measured in some milk. "I wouldn't say the Hammond case is dead-end. I've got a dozen theories on that one."

"Aliens or vampires?" she snorted. "We've already interviewed every family member associated with Victoria, as well as several of her best friends, without turning over any new clues. The only persons with probable motive are her husband and his cousin Irving, due to the legal case, and both of them have airtight, verified alibis."

Turning on the hand mixer, Castle churned through his memories of each interview; tried to align each of his more plausible theories with the array of facts. He added the vanilla; melted the butter and slopped it in. He found that inspiration often struck when he was doing something else with his hands; he'd been known to cook himself through writer's block. And as he scraped the sides of the bowl and finished blending the watery mixture, a small thread began nagging in his mind. "Did we interview Irving's son?"

"Mmm...yes. Ryan had that one."

"Who verified his alibi?"

Beckett frowned, stirring the flour mixture thoroughly. "I think just Irving. They said they were together, in a family counseling session, or something. The counselor said they'd been working on reconciliation between the two...but they weren't getting anywhere fast. He verified Irving's presence that day...but I don't think we specifically asked the counselor about the son, because frankly, the son's estranged from the family and not really a person of interest. Why?"

"I just got to thinking...Irving and his wife are finalizing a divorce, right?"

Her spoon stopped its circular motion as she tried to anticipate his train of thought. "Yes..."

Castle walked over and retrieved her bowl. "So why would he and his estranged son be working on reconciliation? Doesn't that seem odd - especially for this family?"

"They aren't very forgiving," Beckett mumbled, "But now that you bring it up - had Victoria won, the son would have lost a pretty significant inheritance, if he was still written into the will. There's a motive. Plus-"

"-the son blamed Victoria for his parent's divorce, because the legal battle was the catalyst that sunk his parent's marriage," Castle finished, folding the dry ingredients into the wet.

Beckett tented her fingers near her lips, twin thought lines appearing between her eyes. "I don't know...you think the counseling sessions were a cover for planning Victoria's murder?" She set her teeth against the corner of her bottom lip, pensive. "I wish I had the case files. I think the sessions started long before the legal battle...so I'm not sure they can be tied to Victoria's case." Narrowing her eyes, she pursed her lips. "Unless..."

"-Unless the _son_ is the one who actually has the resources to keep the family's enemies in line, not Irving. No one suspects the son: he is an estranged black sheep with a bad relationship with his father. So Irving keeps up with the family politics..."

"...and the son does his dirty work. Victoria was just another hit in a history of intimidation."

"Exactly." Castle agreed, pouring batter across the hot iron and sprinkling mozzarella cheese into the dripping waffle before shutting the lid. "I'll bet, if you look into their correspondence, you won't find many phone calls or emails. Definitely not anything incriminating."

"Did you just put mozzarella on a raw waffle?" Beckett asked, slightly disgusted.

"Trust me. Secret ingredient."

She looked skeptical, but her brain was still clicking through the case. "So the two fight publicly to cover their tracks, but schedule a session any time Irving needs something done." Beckett leaned back in her chair and shifted her hips into a new position. "Hm. I should run the dates for their therapy sessions against our incident reports - see if any of their acquaintances called in a report of violence or intimidation shortly thereafter. That would be a start. And I should grill the therapist - he may be in on it...but I suppose he wouldn't have to be..."

Castle snuck a look at her face as he set two plates beside the waffle iron and grabbed a few forks. She was staring, unfocused, brow low and steady as she worked through this angle of the case. Perhaps he shouldn't have brought it up: she had thrown a switch and reverted them back to their casual work relationship, sidelining emotions and drawing them away from where he wanted to go.

He swiped the whipped cream from the fridge and picked up the sliced and sugared strawberries; walked to her side and reached across her outstretched legs to set the toppings in the middle of the table. "You want to go in today, don't you?"

"Aren't you curious?" she asked, surprise in her eyes at his neutral tone.

"Sure! It's my theory. But-" he jerked his head towards her ankle. "We argued our way out of a cast because we promised the doc you'd be good and keep it up all weekend."

"Oh come on, I'll be fine. Once I get to the precinct, I'll be bugging my eyes out on the computer going through lists of incident reports; my ankle will be up just as much there as it would be here."

Castle chuckled, turning back towards the kitchen. "Does a Saturday even mean anything to you?" he asked, opening the waffle iron and prying the crisped waffle onto a plate.

She looked at him stubbornly. "Yes. It's a day to accomplish unfinished tasks."

Yeah. Like the unspoken words concerning her feelings for him.

He poured a second waffle onto the iron, added the cheese and shut the lid. Sighing, he brought the steaming waffle over and set it in front of her, smiling gently at her upturned face. "It's a day I'd like to spend making you waffles and putting socks on your feet," he stated, reaching to graze the tips of his fingers along the soft skin beneath her chin as he ran the pad of his thumb across the ridge of her jaw. "We've got the murder board Monday through Friday, hmm?"

She blinked at him, startled; caught off-guard by the sudden intimacy.

Castle watched her eyes as they went from surprise to puzzlement to realization; watched her mind center around his words and collide her two worlds into one.

He was now both her lover and her partner; both her leader and her follower.

Running the backs of his fingers over her cheek, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, caressing the delicate shell and lightly thumbing the lobe as he withdrew his hand. "Just think about it. I'll be leaving to check in with Alexis; so if you really want them I could swing over and pick up the case files from the Precinct. I could even take a picture of the murder board," he added with a quirk of his mouth.

And then he thought about the way she was; about how he had been by her side for most of the last twenty-four hours. "Or," he added, "If you need some space...I could drop you off on my way to the loft, and pick you up for dinner." The last few words were more of a question than a statement.

Beckett cut to his eyes when he mentioned space; held them for an instant before she let her eyes fall and drift towards the warm waffle beside her. "We can figure it out later. This smells good."

"Taste it," he urged her, unsure of how to process her answer. She hadn't taken the out. But she hadn't turned it down, either.

So much guessing with her.

"Where's the syrup?" she asked.

"No," he replied, "just taste it naked."

She shot a suggestive eyebrow at him and reached for the waffle.

"Tsk, Beckett; you went there, not me."

"What?" she protested, widening her eyes in innocence.

Castle smirked. "But we can figure that out later too."

She gave a soft snort, placed the ragged piece in her mouth. "Mmm, wow. It's really moist."

It was his turn to waggle an eyebrow, unable to control the twist of his mouth.

"Oh for crying out loud, Castle! Go check on your waffle!" she declared, shoving against his hip.

He turned on a laugh; noticed her phone was chiming softly on the counter. "Oh, hey; it's Ryan." Lifting the phone, he extended his arm slightly as he focused on the screen. "What a dorky picture."

"Oh, good; bring it here."

He took a few steps towards her, stopped on an idea.

She saw something in his face, widened her eyes and sucked in a breath. "Castle, no. If you answer it, I swear-" she set her teeth, looked at him from the corners of her eyes in warning.

"You'll what?" he smirked, raising it for emphasis and pressing his thumb against the answer bar.

"Castle!" Beckett launched herself out of the chair, shoving off the table and hopping forward on one leg faster than he thought possible.

He should have moved to help her; but the sheer determination on her face coupled with the velocity of her approach caused him to jump back a step, releasing the bar unanswered. "Wo'ah, Kate!"

Her last bound brought her within reach - and with a flick of her wrist, she stood clutching the phone in one hand while twisting the collar beside his neck with the other. "Castle! Do you not remember?" Her eyes were like sparks, bright and intense and swirling with activity.

He didn't, actually.

"Pancakes? The amount of torture we had to suffer through that day?"

Oh, right. But she was pressed against him, all tight muscles and fiery expression... "You are _so_ hot," he grinned, steadying her at the waist.

She flushed before she could control it, narrowed her eyes and shoved his shoulder to mask the effect. "And you are pathetically easy to disarm."

"I was more worried about this," he countered, sliding his hand down across the back pocket of her jeans and along her thigh, tapping to indicate her injured leg.

She dropped her face and made a show of checking her phone, but he caught the hitch in her breath. "I need to call Ryan back," she muttered, squirming away from his grasp.

He hid a secret smile, walked past her and retrieved the crutches. "Here. Be good. I'll bet it hurts now, hmm?"

"No..." she groused. "It was time to ice it anyway."

"Uh-huh."

"Your waffle's burning," she pointed her chin in the direction of the counter as she pressed the phone to her ear and rested on one crutch, the other pinned beneath the opposite arm as she hovered her bad leg above the floor.

He opened the iron, used a fork to lift the waffle onto his plate. It was a darker tone than

hers, but nowhere near burned. Walking past her as she conversed with Ryan, he set the plate on the table before stepping to her back, wrapping an arm around her waist and pressing his lips to the slope of her neck near her shoulder.

Because she knew; and he could.

She inhaled a silent breath, hunching her shoulder against her ear to break his contact. "...Yesss, thanks Ryan..." she said, shooting a smoldering glance at him from the corner of her eye.

The crutches were in the way; she couldn't get her elbow into his side as he breathed across the back of her neck and found the jut of her spine. She grunted a warning, rolled her head back to bump his face away.

"No that's fine, just make sure- uh-" her fingers clawed at his forearm as he slipped his hand under the hem of her shirt and skirted her abs, stuttering over her obliques. "-make sure they clear the transfer with...their captain." She twisted her hips, tried to turn against his arm.

He didn't let her; gripped her tighter and found that as his fingers pressed into her side she bent away from his touch, stuttered her breath.

"No, I'm okay, just - cooking." Holding the phone at arm's length, she gasped, dropping a crutch as she frantically tried to dislodge his fingers. "Stop - it!" she growled at Castle, snaking against him in an attempt to free herself.

He grinned. "You're ticklish."

She slapped the phone back to her ear. "Hey Ryan, I gotta go." Tossing the device haphazardly onto the counter, she arched into him and squealed as he found her sweet spot. "Castle - god - stop it!" she stuttered through laughter, one hand wrapping in a vise around his wrist as the other worked to block his fingers. "My - my ankle!"

"Don't cry wolf," he admonished.

Kate finally twisted enough to expose his side, rammed an elbow into the soft muscle beneath his ribs. With a grunt, he loosed his arms, letting her shove off his chest and hop-wriggle away. Standing on one leg, ruffled and trying to catch her breath, she looked radiant despite the glare in her eyes.

"You are walking a _fine_ line, Castle."

He waved a dismissive hand. "I'm a creative. I don't believe in lines." Bending to collect her crutches, he stood to see she had already found her own way back to her chair. "Do you even need these?" he asked, laying them on the floor beside her.

"Aah...they're more for the open road." She reached for the strawberries, and he nudged them her way. "I am _starving_," she exclaimed. "Sit down so we can eat."

They tackled the waffles with gusto; she only reprimanded him once for the amount of whipped cream he was dispensing.

"So they got him?" Castle asked hopefully, halfway through.

"Oh, yes - a plainclothes from the 32nd ran in to him stealing donuts from a convenience shop."

"Ha! Lucky break. Or unlucky, depending on who we're talking about."

"Lucky for you. You'd have gotten more than an elbow if Ryan hadn't put me in such a forgiving mood."

Castle chuckled. "Lucky for you. Gates won't ream you on Monday."

She tilted her head in deference. "There is that."

The rest of their waffles disappeared; he gestured his fork at her empty plate. "Want another one?"

"Mmm. Maybe a half? You were right about the cheese."

"Told you," he said. "I'll split one with you."

* * *

><p>Two waffles and a pile of clean dishes later, he convinced her to go rest on the couch as he returned the ingredients to the pantry and wiped down the counters.<p>

They still hadn't talked.

But she hadn't brought up work either; hadn't mentioned a need for space.

That was something.

He meandered into the living room, found her stretched out on the couch with her eyes closed. When he stepped closer, she must have heard his socks swishing against the wood floor, because her lids flicked open, searching for his face.

"Are you tired?" he asked, standing over her.

"Mmm. I'm full." she mumbled, resting a hand over her stomach.

"When was the last time you indulged in this?"

She lowered her brow, squinting slightly. "In what?"

"A lazy Saturday where you ate a late brunch and took a nap."

"I don't know," she replied, drawing a slow sigh as if it didn't matter, as if nothing mattered except that she was lying here now, relaxed and content. "A while."

He smiled, inwardly purposing to bring her this peace every day of her life if she'd let him. Glancing at the nearby armchair, he wished he was brave enough to presumptively curl up with her.

"Castle." She extended a hand to tug at the knee of his cotton pants. "There's enough room on the couch."

Glancing at her face in surprise, he had a dawning realization. Could it be...?

He dropped himself carefully between the back of the couch and her supple frame, wedging an arm under her shoulder as she rolled into him and tangled her legs with his; held her loosely as she squirmed until she fit exactly in all the right places, wrapping herself around him as a weighted blanket. A liquid, living, luscious blanket.

And when she placed an open-mouthed kiss at the junction of his collar bones before letting out a hot sigh to wash his skin of her touch, he knew it was so.

Kate Beckett was a cuddler. A really, really _good_ cuddler.

It shouldn't surprise him; he remembered observing the way she had let Demming handle her at the Precinct; remembered with glaring clarity how she'd wrapped herself in Josh's arms the day the city nearly died from a dirty bomb. But it did; perhaps because she'd held him at arms length for so long; left him perpetually standing on the other side of the wall.

No more.

Right?

He wrapped his arms tighter around her and buried his nose in her hair, pressing his lips to the crown of her head as he closed his eyes and tried to memorize every line of her body, every subtlety of her scent. Tried to push back thoughts of other men and their failures. They'd all followed this road...but he was different; they'd all touched...but he _loved._ Oh, howheloved.

Surely it was enough. Surely.

He noticed her hand rubbing circles on his back, soothing, heard her murmur into his shoulder. He was holding her too tight, again. It was just...he didn't know.

Loosening his grip on her lungs, he forced his throat to work. "Cranberry almond?" he said, hoping the humor would distract him from his insecurities. "Where the heck did you find such a wacky concoction?"

She laughed, and that did wonders for his mind. "I bought it from a little girl on the seventh floor. Her mom sells some line of natural hygiene products, and the girl was saving up for a trip to Disney World. She was so cute - and really persistent," she added, chuckling. "It's their Christmas blend or something."

"Ah. And how did you know her mom wasn't just using her for profit?"

She balled her hand into a fist at his back and tugged lightly on his shirt in reprimand. "Stop it. I was making a little girl's dreams come true."

"I know, I know," he smiled, curling downward and nuzzling along her cheek. "You're a softie, aren't you? Under the badge and behind the gun, you're a-"

She turned and took his lips, slicked her tongue along the hot roof of his mouth.

He let her, then broke her grip with a grin as he spoke into her lips. "-a big hearted, hopeless emotional sap."

Pressing her lips in a smile, she poked him in the ribs. "Takes one to know one, Castle."

"You know it," he mumbled, finding her lips again.

After she had devastated him with her subtle movements - after her murmurs and spontaneous hums had unraveled the fabric of his emotions - she slid down to rest her head on his shoulder, the beat of her heart against his stitching him back together, beat by beat.

He stared at nothing, realized lazily that he had no idea what time it was and really didn't care. Kate's jaw was tensing and relaxing against his chest; he thought she was probably worrying her lip; wondered what she was thinking about. Stroking a hand along her ribs, he bent to kiss the line of her forehead in silent support.

Her jaw stopped, and she spread her fingers over his chest in answer, smoothing his shirt beneath her palm.

"It was your book."

Castle furrowed his brow, trying to understand but unable to find the context. "My book?"

She hummed, rolled slightly off of him and looked at the ceiling. "Yeah. It was your book that brought me back."

"Oh." He'd learned to wait for her words, to listen and not lead her on.

Suddenly she twisted into him and pushed up, one hand pressing through the cushions and one planted on his chest. "It was good," she continued, "because it was more than a novel. It was...well, I knew. The subtext."

He opened his lips, but she shushed him, shook her head. "Wait." And then she shifted forward towards the corner edge of the couch, resting her chest against his shoulder as she reached under the frame; brought up a book with the dust jacket removed.

"You keep my book under your couch? Not sure how I should feel about that."

She laughed a little, hovering over him with the book on his chest. "It's a good thing. I was reading it this week."

"Ok. But I think it deserves more respect than that. It's a book."

"I keep my books stacked on my stairs; how do you feel about that?"

"I can forgive it on grounds of artistic expression."

"Mmhm," she dismissed, nudging his side with her knuckles. "Sit up a little."

Castle grunted and pushed himself up from beneath her, settled his shoulders into the cave of the arm. Careful of her ankle, Kate molded into his side beneath his outstretched arm, running a hand across the cover before inserting a finger and flipping it open to the dedication. "I wasn't sure if I was strong enough to read it after this," she murmured.

_To Captain Roy Montgomery, NYPD. He made a stand and taught me all I need to know about bravery and character._

Castle knew the words: he watched the emotion flickering over her face instead.

Flipping several pages, Kate chuckled and paused at an interaction between the fictional Detectives Raley and Ochoa. "Have you ever asked Ryan and Esposito how they feel about their alter egos?" she asked.

"No. But after the first book Esposito gave me stink for combining the names into 'Roach.'"

She hummed laughter behind closed lips, flipped a few more. "Rook and Nikki...you split yourself between them. Rook is what we see, all flippant and optimistic; Nikki..." she trailed off, thumbed over a few more pages; found where Nikki was upset about Rook's failure to communicate with her. "Nikki is your heart. What goes on upstairs." She stretched and bumped her head gently against his jaw.

Making a noncommittal noise, Castle felt his stomach flip with unexpected insecurity. She was right: everything was between those covers – and he was, quite literally, an open book in her hands. And of all his books, _Heat Rises_ was the most raw and transparent vehicle of his emotion. For her.

She turned the pages in sections, pausing for different lengths at familiar passages; sometimes smiling softly, sometimes re-reading in contemplative silence. At times she would trace the lines with a finger as she spoke, peeling away the fiction and excavating the reality of his frustrations, his joys, and his longings in their relationship. Other times she would simply murmur so he could barely hear, telling him the way his words had affected her; the way he had changed her perspective and given her new understanding.

He listened with fascinated awe, saw the familiar text only dimly as her words washed over his soul. At one point, he shivered as the gravity of what she was doing hit him with frightening clarity: she was reading his book as his love letter; telling him what she had discovered between the lines of prose. Revealing the subtext.

It had been two days, she told him, before she could pick it up again after his fictionalized version of the Captain's murder. And then she flipped to another page and laughed, dug her toes into his calf.

"'Rook's magnificent ass?' Castle - that's not even good writing. That's pure ego."

He laughed with her, shrugged. "So? It's true!"

She rolled her eyes, flipped over a large section -

and stilled, curling tighter around him.

"You didn't go into much detail here," she mumbled, the length of her fingers caressing the half-page that it took to write out the scene in which Rook took a bullet to the chest. "It was still too fresh, wasn't it?" She paused, rubbing a thumb over the page. "And you had no closure." Flattening the book under her hand, she turned her nose into his neck. "I'm sorry," she whispered, shifting up to hold her lips against his pulsing skin. "I'm sorry."

Castle couldn't speak; his vocal cords felt as if they'd cramped up and collapsed his airway. But he circled an arm tight about her waist, mumbled something incoherent into her hair.

After a moment, she lifted the book again. Laying her head against his shoulder, she fanned through the remaining pages and stuck her thumb into the last page, letting the book fall open from its own weight to the last scene. Where Nikki sits beside a comatose Rook in the ICU, waiting for him to come back to her.

"I was already a mess when I got here. But it was here, Castle…it was here that you broke me." And she ran her fingertips over the crinkled page, rippled from where her tears had dried in the fibers of the paper. "Because there wasn't much hope here. Just a line where Nikki wonders if Rook would make it." She stopped, took a breath. "You didn't know, did you? If I'd ever come back. If we'd make it."

Castle gently cleared his throat, found he could speak. "At the time, it was...no. I didn't."

Kate pressed heavily against him, humming a reassurance into his shirt before turning her eyes back to the pages. "And the last two paragraphs – you wrote those only for me. That was when I knew I had to find you." She touched the lines where Nikki began reading _Castle of Her Endless Longing_, one of Rook's medieval romance novels...featuring Lady Kate Sackett as the main character. "In these lines, you called out to me. And here -" with a soft rustling of the page she dragged her fingers down to the final paragraph of _Heat Rises_, where Nikki reads aloud of how a roguishly handsome young man rides up alongside Lady Sackett and offers to accompany her through the dangerous woods. "Here you made me a promise. That if I let you, you would stay by my side. Through whatever the woods may bring."

Kate closed the back cover, observing her hands as she turned the book over. "So, see?" she breathed, "It was your book that brought me back to you." There was a long silence as she traced the lettering embossed on the front cover. "And I know you've already made good on it, but for the record - because these woods are really, really dark - does that promise still stand? That come what may, you'll stay with me?

He was almost shaking with emotion; he didn't trust himself to unclench his jaw; thought he might cry.

She turned, saw his face; and dropped all her walls as her eyes suddenly filled with compassion and…

And something else he'd never fully seen displayed across her face; but it loosed his tongue and gave him freedom.

"Yes, love. It stands."

And now she was the one that trembled, fluttering her hand along his jaw and pressing a thumb to his ear as she wrapped her fingers about the expanse of his neck. "Then Rick - into the woods we go," she murmured.

He thought if time ended and the universe collapsed, he really wouldn't mind.

Then her lips crashed upon his, and he really didn't think at all.

* * *

><p>AN: WHEW! That was a long one. Sorry about the delay in update, but I hope it was worth it. SO - This is the last official chapter...but I am going to write an epilogue, so there will actually be one more little tidbit of fun. ;) Tell me what you thought - it was quite a sacrifice. (I may have just missed a flight because I wanted to post it so bad)

Wow, I am going to miss this story. Maybe I'll write another one...where Castle's secret comes out. How I wish I didn't have to sleep...Then I could write all night and work during the day. Oh wait. I already do that. I need to change careers.

THANKS SO MUCH FOR ALL YOUR AWESOME REVIEWS! I will definitely miss them in my inbox. :`(


	12. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

* * *

><p>"I never knew you could fit so many pieces in a residence!" Beckett laughed as she entered her apartment, stumbling slightly as the change from wood to carpet snagged the convex sole of her walking cast and jerked her stride short.<p>

Castle tensed his arm to steady her as she pulled against their joined fingers, listening to her grouse about the stupid boot on her foot. New Year's day had marked a liberation from her crutches - but although she was walking, it was only with the aid of a padded plastic boot that covered her toes and extended over half-way up her calf. Nearly a week later, she was apparently still adjusting to the extra inch or so added to the length of her leg by the bulky contraption.

Either that, or she had a few too many sips of wine at Stefan's art gallery.

Castle smiled and turned to lock the door. "Impressive, isn't it? But what really amazes me is how artfully he arranges it all," he said, tossing the keys into the nearby bowl beside a small remote as she led him towards the kitchen.

"Mm!" she stopped so quickly his momentum carried him into her shoulder. "We should set them up on a blind date there," she said, spinning to face him before adding clarification at his questioning glance. "You snag Javier and I'll convince Lanie - it would be great."

"Ah, I'm not so sure..." Castle said, bumping their joined hands against his leg, her face only inches from his. "They only just stopped giving each other dirty looks."

"Oh come on...they just can't _see_ it - you see it, I see it; it is so _obvious_…" her eyes shifted to focus behind his shoulder; an instant later her body leaned into his as she reached around him and grabbed at the remote in the bowl, jostling the keys.

He dove in, nipping his lips at the exposed tendon of her neck. "I'll tell you what's obvious..."

Beckett husked a chuckle, pressing her body closer as her arm remained extended a moment longer before dropping the remote and curling against his back, fingertips pressing deeply into the nape of his neck. "You can't stay on task, can you?" she said, twisting her head to break his hold on her throat; freeing her to rasp her teeth lightly against the line of his jaw as she made her way towards his mouth. "Too much wine, Castle?"

"Look who's talking," he replied as she covered his lips, their tongues humming with the zest of exotic wines. He barely noticed the smooth jazz tones filling the air around them as her stereo system powered on.

She broke away as he dragged their joined hands behind her rear, laughing. "Even if they were angry at being set up with each other on a blind date–" she let go of his hand and slipped her fingers beneath his sport coat to skim along his obliques, pausing for another deep kiss. "–they'd probably be angry enough to drink enough to end up in bed together anyway."

"Who are we talking about here?" Castle smirked against her lips, dropping his hands suggestively low along the slope of her jeans. His brain was fogged with her presence more than the wine; he couldn't remember why they shouldn't just do this, right here, right now...and why had he restrained himself after that New Year's party last weekend, late in his loft?

Gripping his jaw lightly, Beckett put a sliver of distance between them to catch his gaze. "Why? Are you angry and drunk?" she teased.

"No and no," he grinned. "But the thought of angry drunk sex is rather inspiring, don't you think?"

She quirked her mouth deviously, tilting her head back to look down her cheeks as she pressed her chest against his. "I've got a bottle of wine begging to be uncorked."

"Quick - think of something that makes you angry," he muttered.

"Oh, that's easy," she said as she turned out of his embrace and pivoted towards the pantry. "You."

"Oooh! I so handed that to you."

"On a silver platter," Beckett tossed back, crossing the kitchen.

He watched her, smiling at the unintentional hitch in her stride forced by the cumbersome boot. It gave her a roiling swagger that he found strangely endearing.

"You pirate," he remarked.

She swung open the pantry and looked sharply at him. "Excuse me?"

He laughed at the expression on her face and joined her in the kitchen. "You crazy hot, sexy pirate."

Closing the pantry, she extended a bottle of wine toward him. "Well, mate, care t' open the drink while I find som' vittles?"

Her simple willingness to join his imaginative world froze him momentarily before he stepped past the proffered wine to crash his lips on hers. How did she keep doing this? Amaze him over and over?

She hummed a surprised squeak and wrapped her arms about his neck as he bent her back over his arm, the wine bottle bumping lightly against his shoulder.

"I love you...so much," he stated, breaking the kiss and staring down at her in adoration.

The words still brought a slight flush to her cheeks; her lashes fluttered and she smiled in that soft way that put his heart in his throat and his stomach in his shoes.

As he straightened them both, he remembered why he was waiting – remembered what line of reasoning had kept them from his bed in the wee hours of New Year's day.

He wanted her to say it back; he wanted to hear those words uncoerced by passion and untainted by circumstance. This was too precious – too valuable to gamble on a night she may or may not be ready for. No matter how bad he wanted it.

Castle uncorked the wine, pouring out two half-glasses and pressing one into Beckett's waiting hand. "You know, we could always go on a double date; show them how it's done."

"I have to give it to you - you are excellent at planning dates," Beckett said, swirling her wine between sips. "Although it may only make Lanie jealous," she winked.

"Honestly, I just want to see Esposito's face again when you have your wicked way with me."

Beckett laughed fully at that, placing one hand on his forearm in agreement as she leaned against the counter beside him. "Oh my gosh, yes - did you see his face this morning?"

"Did you see _my_ face this morning?" Castle laughed back, waving his wineglass in a small arc. "Here I am, innocently making you coffee in the break room and hanging with my bros - and you walk in and go all sexy tiger vixen on me. Not that I was complaining," he added, tilting towards her.

"No; on the contrary, you grabbed my ass and set me on the counter."

Castle coughed a laugh. "Mmm. I've always secretly wanted to that."

"I could tell," she chuckled. "It seemed well-rehearsed."

He opened his mouth to say something about scarring the kids, but Beckett laid a hand on his chest. "Wait - I love this song."

He had forgotten the music; it had been subtly setting the mood all along, washing the rooms in romantic undertones. Now, as he listened, he recognized a popular tune sung by Dean Martin.

_When marimba rhythms start to play_

_Dance with me, make me sway_

She was warm and heavy against his side; her fingers had wedged themselves between them as they found his own.

Setting his wine glass behind him on the counter, he reached across his body for her other hand. "Sway with me?"

She looked at him in surprise, then poked out her booted foot even as she relinquished her wine glass. "With this thing?"

Drawing her out onto the open floor, he smiled. "We're swaying, gimpy; not dancing." He lifted their joined hands behind his head before releasing her fingers and sliding his palms down her uplifted arms, slowing as he caressed the expanse of her ribs and cupped the dip of her waist, thumbs guiding her hips in time with the music.

_Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore_

_Hold me close, sway me more_

She tugged lightly and he followed her pull, slanting his lips onto her up-turned mouth as the music wrapped them gently and his senses buzzed with the energy of her taste and the drug of her touch. "Have I mentioned how beautiful you are?" he murmured, relishing the feel of her warm hum across his mouth.

Smiling, she left him kissing teeth. "And all along, I thought you picked me because I was tall."

He grinned back, nuzzling his nose against hers. "That was before I realized you wore four-inch heels."

Her deep chuckle resonated against his chest. "I'm going to be short for a while, all things considered."

"No complaints here - you fit either way," he replied, clutching her closer to him as he turned them in a slow, rhythmic circle. Pressing his lips near her ear, he murmured the last few lines of the song into her hair.

_When we dance you have a way with me_

_Stay with me, sway with me_

There was a pause as the song ended; he stopped their motion and angled his head to drop a kiss on the silk of her neck. She shuddered slightly, tightening her arms about his neck and tilting her chin to give him better access. Trailing up her prominent pulse, he locked open lips beneath the corner of her jaw and hummed lightly as the next song began, his tongue pressing her skin lightly against his teeth.

Suddenly he realized what song he was humming to; realized how much he wanted it to be about them - wanted it so badly - but he didn't think she was ready, not yet. Not if she couldn't say it back.

_L is for the way you look at me_

_O is for the only one I see_

Her hips got them moving again, pressing into his as the music led. Burrowing the fingers of one hand under the back of his collar, she grazed her nails along the bare skin of his shoulder as she found his lips once more.

_V is very, very, extraordinary_

_E is even more than anyone that you adore..._

Breaking their kiss half-way through the song, she looked up at him and locked her gaze on his.

And then she sent him spinning into a glorious free-fall.

"Love is all that I can give to you," she sang; husky and imperfect and the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. "Love is more than just a game for two," she continued, her eyes widening in trusting earnestness and arms tightening as she lifted on tiptoe to put her lips near his cheek. "Two in love can make it so take my heart and please don't break it..."

The rest of her words trailed off as Castle lifted her off her feet and hugged her as if he could press her through his ribcage and into his heart; squeezing his eyes shut he buried his face against her neck.

Whatever song was next didn't matter; whatever murderers were free; whatever issues were ahead; whatever miscommunications they had left to face -

None of it mattered. He had heard what he needed to hear.

"I do, you know," she murmured as he allowed her to slide down his body, her feet grounding once more. "I do love you."

He slipped a hand up her shirt before he even knew what he was doing, hovering a moment before he rested his fingertips over her heart, discovering the small dip of a scar. "Kate - I won't break it."

"I know."

Certain smiles of hers were his favorites; but this smile - the one she was wearing right now in this moment - took absolutely first place.

* * *

><p>AN: And that's it! I know it's been a month since I posted, and I'm terribly sorry. Plus it is kinda short; but it _is _an epilogue. And yes, the song/lyrics thing is way overdone and cheesy...probably just ruined my reputation here. But hey - Castle got to take her on that awesome date! (Well, minus the ice skating)

I am sad to say goodbye to this story, but I've really enjoyed the journey. Especially with such fantastic reviewers and such faithful readers. Seriously, you guys - you floor me every time. Thank you so much!

If you are curious: I did make my flight, had a wonderful trip...came back and decided to quit my sales job so I could focus on a few other things - such as writing! (Notice I'm not posting at 4:00am? Hooray!) And if any of you reading this are thinking I am crazy to quit a job based off the very little talent I have as a writer - you are absolutely right, but what's a life if you can't live your dreams? I'll learn. I'll starve. And then I'll learn some more. And then I'll almost give up. And then I'll get published. :)


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